Ozzie

I sit alone in the office at Velvet Grid, my fingernails dig into the cushioning on the chair. I look down a half page of scribble and note's.

I grind my teeth; slide my rubber sole high tops across the dark red carpet.

*Bang*, *Thud*

My head hits the table twice, no brick in this building anywhere close. In a dark world of desire, temptation, and lust it s so easy to be insecure and negative. I pick up a pen next to my scribble pad write the word "guilty" and circle it.

I put myself up on a pedestal, like lonely jar of vegemite on an otherwise empty shelf, in plain view of shoppers in a distant place far form the security of homogeneity.

I think back, all the names I have been called, cow, moo, bitch, player, slut, blah, blah many words with the same intent. I also remember being poked, slapped, punched, spanked, whipped; such is the life of a virtual bad girl who refuses to give in to the choking vines of negative spirit.
The battle is hard; I let myself down, my head thuds against the table again. I compose myself again. I lick my finger and flip the page back on the pad; I see my notes about love and hate of myself.

I pick up the pen again and write the word "action". I start writing a plan on an empty corner of the page. A plan to turn the hates into loves.

I stop, get up out of the chair, I stand on the desk, in a position of empowerment. I look through the list of names on the schedule board in the staff office.
The many varied names and faces we employ. I remember the phrase;

"Always look at the good in people, ignore the negative".

My intuition is hardly ever wrong but often hard to understand, more so when my ditzy head is concerned.

I have no doubts about the intuitive feeling given about the "Velvet Grid". I step down and back into my chair careful to stand on my pad.

I pick up my pen again a write the word "teamwork". I slink back in my chair, place my high-tops of the table. I slip a joint out of my top; I strike a match on the table, and breathe in the goodness.

My name is Oz, I maybe insecure, crazy and all of the names given to me. My blood is black; my skin is soft but scarred in a few places, marked with tattoo's here and there.
My beating heart is big and full of passion; it is protected by chest titanium strong. I am loud, Annoying, and look better in bum shorts than you, I say sorry far to Often, but I will never apologetic for Being me. I smile, in a world of darkness and desire, I am truly happy to be me.
Oz, x