There was this place.

And she really liked it because she just did. She didn’t need to explain herself but she could if she wanted to.

The walls were different colors and the smell of paint lingered everyday in new ways. Fresh paint, flaked paint, dust mixed with paint–the sweetness filled the main floor.

Furniture decorated the rooms in interesting ways, yet profoundly dynamic. Like a picture might be leaning against the wall not hung up and collecting dust, but the painting justified the dirty crime committed of neglect. Always a project or an idea one could finish creating someday in a 3 legged wooden chair or with a piece of bottle glass from the ocean.

This house promised everything but had nothing.

She and anyone else would leave only to come back. Sometimes she’d see how long she could stay away just for fun.

She really liked this house. She liked coming back.

The room she spent most of her time was were the sofas matched the color of the floors but not without intention. And in contrast, the tapestried rug in the room’s center broke up the affair with its deep, dark shades. The wall she faced to exit the room and the house itself revealed the rug’s lush color with its own mysterious matching shade. But only this wall had been painted as such. Only the exit wall. The other walls matched the sofa–like the floors–with inviting brightness.

Everything intentional in this house. Nothing to give but everything to promise.

The windows were the first thing she’d see walking into the room. Windows. Glass panes with wooden frames double layered carefully. Curtains drawn most times to show the trees, that old dirt road beyond the creek, and the reminder of green on earth.

Green, so green.

She could breathe when she stepped into the house; the room. But every room in the house promised peace and love. Just didn’t have nothing. She’d sit their for hours. She’d laugh at time. She’d sweat. She’d sleep. She’d eat. She’d do it again the next day. This house loved her. She really liked this house.

Then she stopped laughing one day. The end didn’t come with surprise. She had started to spend more time away. Laughing at time in other places.

She started to forget what was everything in all that nothing. Even sometimes after being reminded.

She didn’t know why she’d waste away. She just believed the houses promises and most times didn’t even understand why she did.

Only the house had nothing. She couldn’t accept the nothingness from the house. Maybe she didn’t need to.

But she accepted it anyway.

At night they’d plug in Christmas lights to highlight the hallway floor and around the outline of the room. The lights made her sleepy and excited. Excited for the morning. She believed morning would always come, but naively. Because she really liked the house in the morning.

She’d wake up to light pouring through the sliding shutters and music playing gently beyond her bedroom walls. There was never a fragrance of bacon or eggs but on good mornings, there was coffee.

She’d lay there unmoving at first. The house woke her up and demanded her attention. So she stared at the walls and the shutter shadows on the floor before she did anything else.


Noun, plural sanc·tu·ar·ies.

1 a sacred or holy place.

2 Judaism.

a) the Biblical tabernacle or the Temple in Jerusalem.

b) the holy of holies of these places of worship.

3 an especially holy place in a temple or church.

4 the part of a church around the altar; the chancel.

5 a church or other sacred place where fugitives were formerly entitled to immunity from arrest.

6 immunity afforded by refuge in such a place.

7 any place of refuge; asylum.

8 a tract of land where birds and wildlife, especially those hunted for sport, can breed and take refuge in safety from hunters ❤ ❤ ❤

The house was her sanctuary.

The house made her holy.

Holy – inspiring fear, awe, or grave distress

The house was her temple.

Temple – an edifice or place dedicated to the service or worship of a deity or deities

She was no longer a fugitive in the house.

Fugitive – a person who is fleeing, from prosecution, intolerable circumstances, etc.

The house gave her immunity.

Immunity – special privilege

The house became her asylum.


1 (especially formerly) an institution for the maintenance and care of the mentally ill, orphans, or other persons requiring specialized assistance.

2 an inviolable refuge, as formerly for criminals and debtors; sanctuary:

Thank you for reading.

– Kelsey Jo


Black Lives Matter

Some call me white girl;

Light skinned; mulatto.

Others aren’t so nice–they tell me,

“I’m wanna be black,

But don’t talk, don’t act.”

When I was younger,

My defense would go:

“My skin’s light, but my daddy’s black.

My brother is black.

My grandpa is too.

My knees get ashy.

My hair gets frizzy.

Behind me, you’ll find a booty.

And my black daddy

Gots baby mommies.”

Why is it these things

Defend my black pride?

Who gets to define true black life?

Black culture is real;

Exclusive; not white.

My mixed brother once

Told our white mommy,

“You aren’t my mom because you’re white.

I am full black so

How can I be white?”

Why did my brother

Feel white made him lack?

Was it because he’s called white boy;

Light skinned; not full black?

Shame–led his attack?

Or was it because

Of all the cracked jokes

Implying we act certain ways

If we wish to be

Part of the black race?

We all see the hurt,

So let’s break all fear

And recognize that skin

Shouldn’t define life

Or level of pride.

Black lives matter!

Indeed, they do.

So why does our

Black life only matter,

When we’re as black as you?

– Kelsey Jo

Confederate Flag

I saw a confederate flag once

Hanging on the kiosk

Of a gas station in Indiana

Who thought it was well

To see a for sale?

Reminding us of

Black dust

From chain’s rust?

Hanging men

From trees to keep

White prodigies?

Wow. It’s not that serious–

Only it’s history

Which created

Present luxury

So why does our country

Thinks it’s fly

To have a flag

We don’t pledge to

Hanging in a state

We belong to?

– Kelsey Jo


White Girl

I look different to them

You see it in my thighs

But I’m white

Only my thoughts are black

And my heart’s black

When I’m left alone

In the dark

And my space attacks

My mind to see

The truth in the culture

And my loss

In submissive lies

I take my passive aggression

And I bite your sessions

Into a lesson

On my black confession

– Kelsey Jo (formerly known as “white girl”)


Let it sink in

Like quick sand

On my hand

It’s a dream

Of a child of destiny

She’s searching

For the answer

Just a little child

Not much to mistake

With her sharp eyed

Pains and open disdain

For what’s evil and vain

If she shoots too soon

She’ll miss the target

She knows

Make the arrow

Sink to the center

Of the target’s heart

Take the dream

With both hands

Hold it fast

So it won’t collapse

Aim again

Only once

Square those shoulders

Make yourself bolder

Now shoot

And hear the target cry

Dreams achieved

In the blink of an eye

The child lives

The target dies

– Kelsey Jo


The world is beautiful

and you are wonderful.

I see people shrinking

in towns–waiting; wasting.

To say it’s a judgement

to speak the truth

would confine the youth

from breaking loose.

So here’s some truth,

for the hopeless few:

“The world is vast,

yet you know your past.

Frozen, afraid, and doubtful

you’ll last

You stay awake in your slumber

The years turning to numbers.

You know you waste

and yet make no haste.

Quick! Get out! Go!

You are your greatest foe.

Be strong–

No one else has your heart.

If you shrink now

who will do your part?

– Kelsey Jo


Sweat dropped down his back as he inhaled the sweetness of a crowd of hundreds of people.

He knew the day would come and he knew he would be the result of such chaos and excitement.

Appreciation, celebration–for the evolution and brilliance in music.

A can of beer burst open spraying the small crowd in the center and aggressive laughter dominoed. Everyone turned to see a group of frat boys with red faces dripping in beer.

The crowd was


Like walking through an explosion of people. The stage was the rocket and everyone wanted on.

He stood tall and pointed at the crowd speaking into the microphone welcoming the students, faculty, and staff.

Someone disrupted his welcome with a yell and everyone turned to see a student standing in a tree. He danced around and some people laughed.

But the explosion was still happening, and the rocket would soon take off, so they turned their attention back to the man on the stage.

He started the countdown and they waited…

They didn’t know but that man built that rocket ship…

And in 5, 4, 3, 2, 1 the artists entered the stage and the show  took off.

They all exploded with joy.

It was a moment to stop and appreciate the ones who take life and words and instruments and synchronicity and passion and pain and create…


A moment to celebrate the victory and loss of human life crafted together by a community of often underrepresented groups of people (the musicians, the artists, the lyricists, the songwriters, the creators, the hearts, the minds).

These people are the ones we build the rocket ships (stages) for and it’s them who take us to the stars.

“Music is a core human experience and generative processes reflect cognitive capabilities. Music is often functional because it is something that can promote human well-being by facilitating human contact, human meaning, and human imagination of possibilities, tying it to our social instincts. Cognitive systems also underlie musical performance and sensibilities. Music is one of those things that we do spontaneously, reflecting brain machinery linked to communicative functions, enlarged and diversified across a broad array of human activities. Music cuts across diverse cognitive capabilities and resources, including numeracy, language, and space perception. In the same way, music intersects with cultural boundaries, facilitating our “social self” by linking our shared experiences and intentions.

This draws us together and, as a social species, remains essential to us; a chorus of expression in being with others, that fundamental feature of our life and of our evolutionary ascent. Music is indeed, as Timothy Blanning noted, a grand “triumph” of the human condition, spanning across cultures to reach the greatest of heights in the pantheon of human expression, communication, and well-being. It is in everything (Cross, 1999; Huron, 2001).”

– Kelsey Jo

…Dedicated to The Man on The Stage…

The quoted statement above was taken from an article on the Frontiers Media SA website titled “The Evolution of Music and Human Social Capability”, written by Jay Schulkin and Greta B. Raglan (also both being the primary researchers).

Here is a link to the article:


Don’t Fool Yourself

They clustered together along the sides of the walls and waited…they weren’t sure what they were waiting for, but the demands of the job had been intense and even abnormal since they went to the place. A young woman with the weight of the world on her shoulders and an unawareness to the feeling of pressure. A young man with his heart in his lap and his shoulders weary…Together they drove the distance.

To Be Continued…

– Kelsey Jo