Worship

The stars I worship are dead 

  By the time their light reaches my eyes 

And dazzle me beyond belief 

           They are dead 

    What does that say of me,

The depressed girl who finds hope in the 

Shining, sparkly specks in the too light night sky 

Who seem so alive, but have died long ago 

When I can find a space that is dark enough

              (In the literal sense) 

I lay upon the ground, be it gravel, grass, pavement, or sand. 

And stare, stare, stare in wonder 

     At those glorious specks of death 

Notes written on the backs of letters

Parts of a woman 

Society having picked her apart 

  But there she remains , 

A full human being 

Who appreciates all of the parts 

Disembodied 

  No that isn't the word 

Sore and weary from her 

Tumultuous exploration of herself 

She finds solace in her wholeness 

This wholeness sometimes being 

Tangible 

Put together these pieces 

And see a human being before you

Life

Life. The walls you live inside, they feel safe and at the same time still confining, suffocating. The floor boards and their familiar creaks, the ones that give you away. Your habits, repeated, again, and again. The worries, the overwhelming desire to become something other than yourself, that self that somehow clings to the hope and prospects you are fully capable if achieving. The desire is to lose yourself in inadiquity, to be the ghost. That everlasting whimsical of wandering, not wondering... But WANDERING. For certain you are lost without those who love and support you. What to do with the ever present thought in your somehow smart analytic and unique mind. How can such a mind be this inadequate at a life that many layman seem to master. 

Stars

Those stars I fervently wish were brighter

     If you're wondering why 

        The reason is this 

Even in their dim sparseness 

     I find hope and a feeling of utterly 

       Captivating beauty 

Unhindered by the future worries of 

           Everyday life 

Their brightness fills the void of infinity 

A bad night in September

I wonder what the people at this pub think 

Distraught young woman seeking refuge

In drink and journaling? 

   A writer onto a story, given the rapid pace of my writing? 

     Or a ghost, come at last to bring more patrons.... The unusual one covered in blood, writing feverishly in her unseen journal. 

    She'll tell your fortune you know. 

      I heard it by a patron near by. 

She's good at predicting deaths, 

  Especially her own. 

.... I'd rather they fancy me a young writer, consumed with the passion of her writing, a story for the ages. 

A bad September day

And what's worse 

    I'd given myself hope 

I had given my family a glimmer of hope. 

And in one stupid day I have smashed it all. 

With the letting of mine own blood, 

With the consumption of spirits. 

The thought of committing totally 

to this 

Idea of madness is often tempting. 

More from that night

I cannot write of what will be. 

The future is easy, the present is hard. 

It is this present from whence I am 

Supposed to build a solid foundation upon which my glorious future will rest 

Problem, this present is shit and has been for as long as I can remember.