More Than Just Boxes

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    Alrighty, let me just head this up by saying; I am fine. I know my last was a bit disconnected from my usual goofy-like posts, and the post before that was me having a realization; but overall, I am fine. Mentally, I’m doing better, I just have to work through some things, physically…I better be more fit soon because working out bores me (I know that’s not how it works, and it’s not totally boring, I just like video games more).

I digress. That being said, two years ago I wrote this little post. I’ve read it out loud once, and I’ve had people read it, and while it is something I want to get published soon, I’m still not certain where to go with it… also I don’t enjoy editing so…

**(Also, sorry for the weird sentence cuts, it didn’t transfer very well to WordPress.)*

More than Boxes

Okay, so picture this:
You’ve got this huge moving truck full of boxes.

You’re pulled up in front of this little building and you’re unloading boxes;

They aren’t ordinary boxes, though. These boxes are heavy and varying in size.

They have their labels on them-and that’s what is curious.

These labels don’t have ‘kitchen supplies’ and ‘paperwork’ written on them,

they have shaky handwriting with words such as ‘past regrets’ ‘mistakes’ ‘anger’ ‘lies’ and ‘hatred’.

You name a road block you’ve hit, those darn boxes have it.

And the reason they’re all boxed up is because you’re ready to get rid of them.

All of them.

Except, maybe, that big one, which you only look at on occasion,

and those slightly larger ones-but no matter,

these contributions that will leave your life will do you a world good.
You pick up a box and struggle to lug it into the building.

You’re greeted by a very cheerful man.

He smiles at you, chatting away about life’s pleasures and his latest deals, all just for you.

You set the box counter, and his smile disappears.
“Oh I’m sorry,” He says, frowning at the box “We don’t do returns.”
You match his frown with your own “I didn’t pay for this. You gave me something else.”

Your points and accusations are useless at this point, so you leave the place in a huff, feeling tired,

despite carrying just one box.

You wish you could throw that box at the store, only you can’t, your muscles are crying out for mercy.

Defeated, you set the box down with the others.
Some time passes of you just sitting, and it seems as if the boxes have multiplied, like gerbils…or Tribbles, if you will. Eventually, a group of people come up, offering to dispose of them, promising you that they will never return. All you have to do is sign that dotted line. At this point, you have fully decided these boxes are, indeed, tribbles, and they are no longer cute, because they are annoying. So you sign, and watch as they carry a few away. You get up, feeling encouraged at the slightest dent in your mess. You carry a few boxes, a spring in your step. This goes on for a while, but eventually, the complaints, and the contract are on its way around to bite you in the butt.
“They’re too heavy.” One of the people says, you groan, and attempt to pick up the slack.
“A contribution will surely help the process go smoother. After all, you promised to help in any way.”

Another chimes in.

Reluctantly, you hand over everything you have.
Your heart, your soul, that really cool shirt you’ve been cherishing for years.
They work a little longer, and then, despite their claims, they leave.

They were kind enough to leave you what you gave them, only they left it on the road,

where it was run over.

They also left you with a new set of problems.
So there you are, sitting on the back of that now eighteen-wheeler, exhausted, miserable,

and at your wit’s end.
You’re done.

It looks like these problems are going to live with you for the rest of your life,

and forevermore.
“Do you want some help?” A friendly voice asks, you look up to see two palms outstretched.

Wounds are engraved on them, and they have a few scratches as well.

You look up to view the owner of these over-worked hands,

the light coming from who knows where making it very hard to make out his face.
You force a smile and try to form the words “I’m fine” on your dry, chapped lips.

Instead, you let out a slight cry, tears sliding down your once-clean cheeks.

“S-sir” you stammer, trying to brush away the tears with the back of your sore hands

“Too many people have tried to help me, but my boxes are too heavy. I can barely carry one.”
There’s a slight shadow on the lower end of his face, so you are now able to make out a soft smile.

“I can help.” He insists, grabbing a box that sat beside you.

You watch as he carries it inside a building, that if you were honest, you had only stepped foot in once.
He grabs several more, and seems to carry them with ease.

His second time around, he returns with healing creams, band aids, and water.

He hands them to you, then gathers many of the boxes you couldn’t even push.

You drink the water, and attempt to apply the band aids and cream.

Your hands are shaking, even more so when something you once loved and

thought was gone is placed beside you.
Your trust.
You look up, voice warbling, officially, your crying. “I’m m-messed up so bad.” You sob.

The hands with painful-looking markings rest on both of your shoulders.
“It’s okay.” The voice says, the words are calming, but the words that come next shock you.

“I still love you.”
Your cries are officially louder than your problems-a nice, but painful change.

“H-how can you still love me, after all that I did?” Your voice is a near whisper.
Instead of answering your question, his response is a question of his own. “Do you want help?”
You nod and brush away some tears. “H-how can you help me, though? They’re so heavy.”
“To you, these are heavy, to me, these are light.” He picks up a small one and hands it to you

“If you’ll meet me halfway, we’ll be able to do this.”
You nod mutely and follow him to the building he had previously carried many others.

It’s much more glamorous than you thought, or remember it being.

You watch as he chucks his boxes into the black abyss on one side of the large, luxurious, room.

He motions you to come closer.

“Where are they going?” You croak, feeling a sudden sense of nerves prickling at your skin.
He smiles “Nowhere. They’re no more.”

He turns to you fully “Now, I know it’s going to be hard, but you have many boxes,

a few of which need to leave before you ever show progress.

Are you ready?” You look at them, and then toss the small box in the abyss,

watching in wonder as it becomes nothing.

You look back to him, a smile gracing your face, reaching your eyes for the first time in a long time.

“Yeah, I’m ready.”
————————————NOT THE END—————————————
“Cast your burdens on the Lord, and He will sustain you;

He will never permit the righteous to be moved.”

Psalm 55:22

 

 

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Why Cash isn’t the best way to Solve Poverty

Todays post was Sponsored by Grammarly. If you’re into writing blogs, or more professional things, then using the exstentions they offer are ideal for you!

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On  March 31st, 2017, the HuffPost released an article written by Mark Hovarth. This article was talking about the idea that giving homeless people money is okay if you feel comfortable.

He constructs the article talking about how to give them money and even goes as far as to say why. He argues the idea that it’s wrong to believe that they would go and spend the money on drugs and alcohol and even if they do-their homeless, so why not? (He wasn’t advocating it, but you know, something to take the edge off).

And I can respect that opinion, you know, the “Well it’s not my business” mindset.

I can, however, give you two reasons why it will most certainly hurt to give cash at will.

1. Drugs and Alcohol are often not permitted in shelters geared toward homeless people.

After spending two years volunteering in one (a homeless shelter), I can tell you why.

Frequently, when purchasing alcohol or drugs of sorts, the person may become rather disruptive. This can cause a problem for the others staying, as it’s both disruptive and unfair. If the patron who consumed the alcohol or drugs fails to abide by set rules and proves to be disruptive and show disrespect toward others, then they will be asked to leave-thus furthering the dangers of the streets, taking away their opportunity of a fairly (no place is entirely safe) place to sleep.

2. Mental Illness

The National Institute of Health released an article on the effects of severe mental illness and the effects that the substances have on them.

“Compared to controls, people with severe mental illness were about 4 times more likely to be heavy alcohol users (four or more drinks per day); 3.5 times more likely to use marijuana regularly (21 times per year); and 4.6 times more likely to use other drugs at least 10 times in their lives. The greatest increases were seen with tobacco, with patients with severe mental illness 5.1 times more likely to be daily smokers. This is of concern because smoking is the leading cause of preventable death in the United States.” (National Institute of Health, 2014)

Naturally, you might be wondering how this affects the idea of giving money to those who are going through a hard time/are on the streets.

According to SAMHSA,

“According to the National Survey of Drug Use and Health (NSDUH), an estimated 9.8 million adults aged 18 or older in the U.S. had a serious mental illness (SMI), including 2.5 million adults living below the poverty line.” (SAMSHA, 2016)

Of course, the argument could then be “You can’t assume that everybody is struggling with substance abuse”. However, you yourself (if you argued that sometimes it doesn’t quite matter), just admitted, that even if they buy the liquor, it could help.  Not to mention, I myself, after volunteering in the area for a few short months, had gotten an idea on where you could pick up drugs (i.e sneakers on telephone lines), and by driving in the part of town below the poverty line, you could easily witness a few drug handoffs. Listen hard enough to those in that area, and you’ll hear where you can buy anything fairly cheap.

So now, you’re probably wondering, what am I supposed to do, how can I help?

And I have answers for that.

–Keep actual snacks fairly handy.  Maybe a few water bottles/Gatorade in your car, a small thing of snacks to hand out. If you’re out walking the city, consider gift cards. Though they can be traded, the chance of them doing that, rather than getting something to eat is smaller.

—Educate yourself on the local organizations that exist to help those who are struggling.

—- When coming in contact with someone who’s struggling, gauge the situation. If they’re homeless, find a way to assist them in that area. If they’re struggling financially but have a place to stay, direct them to an organization that would help them with what they’re struggling with.

—–If you have extra time, call the place for them, let the organization know that you have someone who needs help, and turn the situation over to the,.

Overall, the mentioned options are much better than handing out cash. Making sure you know of the places that there are to help, and giving them food and water are key.

HOWEVER, do not put yourself in a situation that you might feel uncomfortable in. This is supposed to help the other person, but you don’t want to hurt yourself in the process.

That being said, what are your thoughts on this particular topic? I’d love to hear your thoughts below!

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Work Cited

Horvath, Mark. “Giving Money to Homeless People Is Okay.” HuffPost, HuffPost, 31 Mar. 2017, http://www.huffpost.com/entry/giving-money-to-homeless-people-is-okay_b_58de9ef7e4b0ca889ba1a57b?guccounter=1&guce_referrer=aHR0cHM6Ly93d3cuZ29vZ2xlLmNvbS8&guce_referrer_sig=AQAAAJq84-pEAYZ88Dy6xTWunpX3i0zFlrdhbPTbbziBsIxgx_h1wcHifi6gqUh4vYwctqAkRKZzd2XoXz6jgspi_BbgyY8GfqlxZvbTULA5kYxu-Pmhl3Z5Sl2EbOqjREVSGGUz9ceCOYSAh3ArbMvDt6079LHrnJLN8Ov1nLiyAMnV.

“SERIOUS MENTAL ILLNESS AMONG ADULTS BELOW THE POVERTY LINE.” Serious Mental Illness Among Adults Below the Poverty Line, 15 Nov. 2016, http://www.samhsa.gov/data/sites/default/files/report_2720/Spotlight-2720.html.

“Severe Mental Illness Tied to Higher Rates of Substance Use.” National Institutes of Health, U.S. Department of Health and Human Services, 8 Sept. 2015, http://www.nih.gov/news-events/news-releases/severe-mental-illness-tied-higher-rates-substance-use.

We Did Alright

So, yet another thing I’ve written a bit ago. I don’t know if it makes sense, but either way-enjoy!

Remember when we were younger, and things didn’t matter to us, other than making sure we made it to bed on time before mom suspended our tv privileges?
Remember when we lived in a time where reality was just something that we saw on TV, that the games we played used Tonka Trucks, pretending that they were all stuck in the mud, come in off the bike all dirtied up, and the biggest fear was what we messed up with the dirt on our shoes?
Yeah?
   Wish I could say that was the truth for now, but the thing is that I look back on the memories, and I’m starting to realize they weren’t all happy for me. I struggled with so much to stay in the same spot, claim that I’ve done a lot, look at me now, I hit emotional highs and bring myself down, claim I’m what will bring fame to this horror-ridden town.
See the truth is that behind the smile I copy and paste onto my face, I struggle so much.
She’s a good girl they say as I walk away, with a fake smile on my face like everything’s okay. Convince myself I’m being ridiculous like I don’t have a role in this, the mess I call a life of mine, what the heck am I suppose to do this time?

The truth is I’ve never known where I was going or what I was supposed to do. Blame myself, but claim it wasn’t true. I worked my hardest to get here, in the mess I call my life, and as much as I hate myself for it, I’d still say it’s alright. Maybe it’s no longer toy trucks in our years, but we’ve had the memories, and we’ve had our fears-and look where it’s got us, this mess of a life, something that, in the end, shows we did alright.

A Personal Piece of Heaven, with a Taste of Hell

Everytime I walk into the room, somethings different. A small thing, even my perspective.

Been living in it for a while, some days feelin’ like I’m dying in it. I dream my dreams, plan my schemes. That rooms where I had my best days, thought I was great, came back to ground zero, feel nothing but hate. It’s where my nightmares were born, my fears and addictions stormed. That room is where I lived for so long, my personal piece of heaven, mixed with a taste of hell.

It’s where I’d go to hide, to lock my tears inside. It’s where my nails met my skin, invisible scars that shouldn’t have been. It’s where I’d go to cry at nights-whether it sending a prayer to God, asking Him to make it alright. To show me things I shouldn’t, to make me a person I couldn’t be. That rooms where I dealt with rejection; fought against affection. Rejected God, claimed a passion for things I couldn’t stand with. I lost myself in that room, but I found myself there, too. A lot’s happened in that little room. My personal heaven, a retreat if you will,, but where I retreat to find emotions inside. Welcome to my slither of heaven, with a taste of hell.

It’s a Reality

So currently, I’m feeling a little under the weather, having pushed myself a bit further then I should have, so rather then write a book review (those take me a surprising amount of work), I really just wanted to do a smaller post, bringing back a poem, actually. So out of all the poems, this one’s not my best work, however, I don’t think it’s terrible, so that’s why I’m giving it a spot. Not to mention, it’s something I’m writing on a whim, and not a thought out poem. This one’s actually dedicated to my little brother, who is the most amazing guy, but is finally being hit by some very hard emotions in his life.

I love my brother with my life, and from the very beginning I promised myself that I would protect him with my life. That being said, this poem goes out to anyone, fighting for a reality, and going through multiple ones.

Remember to live your life like the ginchy story that it is!

HaziWords

His Reality

By:Hazi

It’s the silent cries that come from the night,

That reveal what laughter once hid,

The tears that stream, the pain that gleams,

When reality comes into view,

That the child-like dreams and schemes

Become a young mans attempt to fight

To grow to become something bigger then them..

The decisions to let reality be his drug, to take him under,

It’s slowly becoming his reality.

The reality that what he once trusted, can’t be trusted.

A painful, cruel reality, pushing the child-like passions.

It’s the harsh words and the painful memories, fighting,

Turning the cries at night to anger in the day, the anger that takes the morning,

His reality.

The reality that every dream and scheme, laughter and uncertainty, has become

Nothing but a distant reality, as fears collide, and bring a young man alive,

Hoping to show a brave young man, that despite his battles,

That eventually, laughter and trust, and all that was messed up, will become

The pass, as he bravely takes on a new reality, of faith and trust,

laughter and passion, boldly shining, the new reality.

Trust to Understand-Poem

I’m posting these because I can’t seem to get the words to come out for poetry right now. Anyways, here’s another poem. Honestly, it kinda makes me cringe. (It’s another poem I wrote last year).


The world around me surrounds
The fear around me abounds
The tears that fall down my face
The darkness from which I cannot wake
The light I struggle to find
I can only be grateful to the Lord
For the strength to keep on
Even though I feel alone, and my faith wavers, I always find Him.
Even though the words struggle to form, I can trust Him, to understand.

At the Cross 2

I think I went through a stage where I was really questioning if I was worth everything God had done for me. Anyways, another poem I found in my journal, I hope ya’ll find it interesting!


The solemn silence that fills this place.
The Broken hearts longing to be replaced, the worried tales of a lie, the painful sounds of unspoken cries.
The lost cries to the wind, the silent pain and suffering, wondering if it will ever end.
Am I trapped here, am I lost? Will I ever be the worth of the paid cost?
Will I ever find my peace?
The hope of a truth.
The pain of a wound, the cry of the lost, it comes at a cost.
Am I trapped here, am I lost, will I ever be the worth of the cost?
All the lies they ever tell
All the stories they never
spoke
Faces, laughter, pain, they’re becoming the same.
Cries to the wind, lines and truths, they blur.
The cost is higher than my worth, it seems official, I am lost.
In the pain, and suffering, crying and the pain, freedom sounds to the wind
Something inside me breaks.
The cost paid in full. Tears of laughter, and of hurt, finally have it’s worth. I have finally found my worth, paid at the cross.