Sitting outside at 3am and nothing reflects the corners of my mind more accurately than the dead of the night and the rain on this page.
No sound but that of others living their lives; sleeping through their dreams whilst I'm here wondering what mine really are.
The ash on my cigarette burning to my fingertips as I run away with the thoughts of what could have been.
The heat of the tea that I'm drinking burning me right down to my stomach just as your words do to my mind when Ieast expect it, when inside I'm so cold.
And you shock me.
You shock my system and I start to crack.
You never cease to amaze me.
Never cease to amaze me.
And where will I go from here?
My hands are exhausted with each stroke of the pen as each line I write is just a recurring thought that has already been discussed,  analysed and evaluated.
The colder it gets the more comfortable I feel.
The more at home I am.
And it's sad.
It's so sad.
I look up at the sky and the clouds are a gentle reminder that maybe I'll never see the stars again.
This place is so dark but the light seems so foreign to me.
Life is so foreign to me.
And towards death I am drawn.
I wonder how am I still here.
But I am.
And there must be a reason greater than this realisation.
The rain never stops falling but the grass never stops growing.
And without suffering there would be no compassion.
Maybe I feel this way so that you don't have to.
Balance.
I fight the lows by getting high.
I used to embrace the lows just to feel.
I don't want to feel anymore.
Can you feel this?
Sit here with me.
Join me.
Read my eyes as the rain clouds them.
Read these words as my tears drown them.
And what do I have left to share with you but the reality of this hell on earth that we must endure just to make it to the other side in the hope of something better.
But is there something better?
And do I want to risk it?
Stay here in this moment hoping daylight never comes or risk the morning sunlight and the hope that things will change.
The heat as it burns through the truth of who I am.
What I am.
But daylight always comes and nobody feels content all of the time.
And the daylight will fall upon me and I'll just want to sleep.
Because I can't stand the hours knowing it's not where I'm supposed to be.

I search
                                      for the words

                                                          ­                     I
wrote on my hips;

                                              but
                                                                ­              not another word,

                  left my frozen lips.

                                                          ­                      There is no way to
                                                                ­      springtime,

        the winter,
                   takes her tole.

                                                               ­       I bury myself away,
                                                         in this 3 pillow,
                                           double bedded hole.

Darling, but I keep myself sane.
               I dream of flowers in my hair & the warmth in your name.
    Early July conversations,
                        tapping strings, how we'd softly sing
                                           & were guided to one another's lips
      at the very touch of our finger tips.
                               I always thought I was better than this,
                                                                                                 but
                                                             ­            Love,
                                                                ­              
                                     Your heart is one I often miss.

I see a world slowly dying -
Voices dying to be heard,
Stories dying to be told..

People dying to live.

& I want to save them all

I have done it again.
One year in every ten
I manage it----

A sort of walking miracle, my skin
Bright as a **** lampshade,
My right foot

A paperweight,
My face a featureless, fine
Jew linen.

Peel off the napkin
0 my enemy.
Do I terrify?----

The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?
The sour breath
Will vanish in a day.

Soon, soon the flesh
The grave cave ate will be
At home on me

And I a smiling woman.
I am only thirty.
And like the cat I have nine times to die.

This is Number Three.
What a trash
To annihilate each decade.

What a million filaments.
The peanut-crunching crowd
Shoves in to see

Them unwrap me hand and foot
The big strip tease.
Gentlemen, ladies

These are my hands
My knees.
I may be skin and bone,

Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.
The first time it happened I was ten.
It was an accident.

The second time I meant
To last it out and not come back at all.
I rocked shut

As a seashell.
They had to call and call
And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.

Dying
Is an art, like everything else,
I do it exceptionally well.

I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I've a call.

It's easy enough to do it in a cell.
It's easy enough to do it and stay put.
It's the theatrical

Comeback in broad day
To the same place, the same face, the same brute
Amused shout:

'A miracle!'
That knocks me out.
There is a charge

For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge
For the hearing of my heart----
It really goes.

And there is a charge, a very large charge
For a word or a touch
Or a bit of blood

Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.
So, so, Herr Doktor.
So, Herr Enemy.

I am your opus,
I am your valuable,
The pure gold baby

That melts to a shriek.
I turn and burn.
Do not think I underestimate your great concern.

Ash, ash ---
You poke and stir.
Flesh, bone, there is nothing there----

A cake of soap,
A wedding ring,
A gold filling.

Herr God, Herr Lucifer
Beware
Beware.

Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air.

I feel waves rushing through me relentlessly 
I choose to focus on just them...
Starting to listen intently...
Beginning to move in rhythm 
to their sweet melody
Hushing me
In lullaby. 

This, her old soul, 
Is Illuminating her core
So that she continues to rise in times of darkness 
That has always been constricting her from tender two
When she began to feel elements like no other.
I am contented she can feel and hear the soothing whispers of nature.

I pray to All-knowing Universe 
Continue to bless this flower child...

- March, 4th, 2014. Around 5 pm....