Archive | August, 2013

Sinclair Lewis is on POINT

28 Aug





What Does Violence Mean To An Eight Year Old?

28 Aug


What does domestic violence mean to an eight year old?  Do you think they’d be able to give you a clear, precise definition?  Should they even know what that is?  They shouldn’t have any idea.  Eight year olds shouldn’t be exposed to things like this, but they are.  My question concerns the parents.  It bothers me that parents allow these things to happen in their home.  A home is supposed to be where children feel safe.  What happens when it’s the complete and utter opposite?  Is it right that so many children dread going home?  When people know certain things go on, they keep them hushed.  They sweep them under the rug or stay silent.  They don’t want to get involved.  They don’t want to start anything or get in the middle of anyone’s personal lives. 

You can try to imagine the terror that an eight year old goes through.  Hell, it doesn’t have to be an eight year old, maybe a six year old.  Even a four year old knows the difference between right and wrong.  A four year old knows that daddy shouldn’t be hitting mommy.  A two year old can hear mommy’s screams.  A twelve year old is almost old enough to maybe be able to physically do something about it but is still afraid to.  After being in a situation for long enough, you’re trapped.  You don’t know what you can possibly do but endure it and hope it stops.  You hope it stops every night.  But it doesn’t. 

I can hear the woman next door from me screaming at her children every day.  Every single day I hear her shrill voice shouting at them and I hear the boys crying.  They’ve looked out their window at me.  I’ve asked them if they were okay.  Are you okay?  Really okay?  They’ve just looked at me and nodded.  Several neighbors have called the police.  The police have gone out several times and found nothing wrong.  If the kids say mommy doesn’t hit them, then she doesn’t, right?  Wrong. 

Kids are so torn between what is in their control and what they want.  Kids will love their parents no matter what when they’re kids.  It’s when they grow up that they might talk about it.  It’s when they realize they have a voice that should be heard that they might say something.  Maybe they never find the courage to say anything at all.  And if they eventually do, it’s usually too late.  That child that was surrounded by destruction and terror is now an adult troubled by years of abuse.  Even worse, that child is now an adult that had to keep the longest running secret of his or her life.  Still, to this day, I bet they think about it; about the past and what exactly that meant.  It’s different for everyone.  Some people never talk about it.  Others grow up to repeat their parents’ patterns.  You either break the chain or keep it going.  What would you do?    

The World Goes Round and Round

15 Aug

The world goes round and round

While the hate trickles up and down

And the adults are exchanging arguments and racist judgments without grounds

While the children sleep unsafe and unsound

Because you’re white you think you’re better than me

You’re in a gang so you think you’re tougher than me

You’re rich so you think you have more power than me

You’ve got a degree so you think you’re smarter than me

The people who live in trailers you call white trash

While the black folk in the projects you know as criminals

With a bad past and no cash

With the idea to live hard and die fast

A way out from the madness, the sadness

A refugee looking for an escape from the daily struggle

Looking for a route to Heaven with a few bundles

Gun locked in his hands

Listening to bad rap artists and bands

Telling him the only way out of the streets

Is by packing heat and selling weed

So now he’s got some money in his pocket and thinks he’s rich

Looking to put a cap in a snitch

And a woman he hits

Because he’s been told to do it if she deserves it

If she’s being a bitch

The truth of the matter is it’s not okay

It’s not okay for a man to hit a woman today

Yesterday, 200 years ago, or any other day

It was never okay

But some people are taught this way

It’s not cool to sell drugs and waste your life

Go to jail for a decade or two and live in more strife

Capital murder, assault, drug paraphernalia

A charge is a charge

And a waste is a waste

A failed attempt at a decent life

Or worse, no attempt was made at all

A hooker on crack with her self-esteem against the wall

The image of her potential drowning as her soul falls

It escapes her; the madness, the sadness

The root of all badness

The rich man cheating on his wife

The drunk man beating his wife

Everyone hating their life

The young mother smoking crack and getting high

Popping pills while her baby cries

The young, pretty girl getting drunk and sleeping with guys

Not remembering that half the time she’s getting raped

But instead she chooses to believe the lies

That she wanted it, she begged for it

And every night she cries

The gay boy being bullied in school

His peers are relentless and make fun of him and it hurts because it’s true

One day he’s had enough

So he leans over the bridge and he jumps

He leaves no note saying why

He doesn’t have to

Because it was you

It was me, it was us

All of this hate has become us

It surrounds us

The madness, the sadness

The root of all badness

You can judge me but he can’t judge you

Shame on me and shame on you

Because even if we don’t voice it, we think it

Like all rich people are stuck up pricks

All people from the south are dumb hicks

All people with tattoos are dangerous and crazy

And all fat people are lazy

That’s a prejudice in itself

It may be right, it may be wrong

But all types of people are not the same

And one person is not like the rest

But all of us need to be at our best

We need to change, switch lanes

Free our minds, free our hate

Respect each other, help each other

Respect ourselves, preserve our souls

Pick ourselves up instead of putting others down

The world goes round and round

While the hate trickles up and down

And the adults are exchanging arguments and racist judgments without grounds

While the children sleep unsafe and unsound

All types of people are not the same

And one person is not like the rest

But all of us need to be at our best

We need to change, switch lanes

Free our minds, free our hate

Respect each other, help each other

Pick ourselves up instead of putting others down

Accept that life is hard

Laugh, cry, yell

But be alive

Be gracious, be spacious

Be brave, be shy

Be that cool type of guy

Live and prosper

Excel, succeed

Be motivated, be rejuvenated

Turn over a new leaf

Turn the other cheek

Do whatever you have to

Be you

Respect yourself, preserve your soul

Enjoy the ride the best you can

And cruise on free control 

Hand Studded One of a Kind Clothing For Sale!

8 Aug



Hand Studded One of a Kind Items For Sale…

Enjoy!  Any Questions or Comments?  Follow me on Twitter @ChristinaKHart 


You’re Either a Writer or You’re Not

8 Aug

When Your Fictional Characters Are More Important Than You

2 Aug


Do you ever have those nights where you just can’t seem to fall asleep?  I used to have these before a day where I knew it held some sort of importance.  When I was younger maybe it was picture day, or a big test.  Or Christmas.  I’d get in bed real early in hopes to fall asleep and be nice and rested the next day.  Instead, I’d lie there awake for hours, anticipating the day to come.  I’d think and worry and wonder and instead of sleeping, I would just lay there with my thoughts racing.

Now, I’m older (much older, unfortunately, than I was when I was a child).  Now, I still have nights like these, only it’s not before Christmas or a big test.  It’s nights when I’ve become so involved with a project that I can’t stop thinking about it.

I recently started writing my next book, even though I told myself I’d hold off on writing another lengthy piece of fiction until I graduated school.  But I found myself up in bed last night, thinking about my character and what she would do next.  I couldn’t stop thinking about her and the magical world she had found herself in.  It got me excited.  But I’m still a little tired today.  This is when you know you’re involved in your work, when your characters lives become more important than your own.

I find that magical in itself, getting so wrapped up in your own work that it feeds some inner part of you.  Did you ever write something that got you so excited that you were up all night?  You were so involved in your character’s fictional existence that it took over a decent portion of your life?  This, to me, is good writing.  When you yourself can’t wait to read what your character is going to do next.  That’s when you know what you’re writing is successful.

I have started to write things and got maybe two or three pages in, and just felt semi-good about it.  I saved them, but I didn’t continue in the moment.  If you don’t want to write it, who will want to read it?  That’s how I’ve felt about it this whole time.  (Though, that may be wrong.)  I’m not 100% sure.  It’s just what works for me.

The best advice I was given long ago was “Write the book you want to read.”  That has stuck with me.  And it will forever be my number one motto when it comes to writing.

Writer’s block

2 Aug


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