A vision that comes out only at night
To trick you into thinking that they're real
Mesmerizing you with your greatest desires
But deep down inside, you know you'll never have
They're deceitful and corrupted
And when you wake up to reality
Disappointment lies right before your eyes
But then one day, reality doesn't seem so bad
Once those wondrous visions become night terrors
They make you go completely insane
Until you ask yourself one day, "Were you ever really sane at all?"
Evil and darkness, compared to candy and rainbows
People filled with joy and happiness
Look down upon you
Laughing haughtily and smirking,
Telling you to Dream Out Loud!
It doesn't seem fair now, does it?
You're scared of what you'll see once you close those beautiful blue eyes of yours
You don't look forward to sleep, terrified of what you've previously seen
But, hey
Don't forget, always remember
To dream

Breath evaporates, vision clouds -
I drift, it is peaceful in the deep
I no longer feel like a burden; lumbering and pathetic  

My hands are soft,
my thighs milky and unclenched
my lips barely touched

Insomnia envelops me once more and I awake: 
this body is not ready

One layer after another follows
Silent colorless dark hollows
Can’t extricate from the scenes dimly lit
Am I in dream or out of it?
Miles traversed the road never ends
Deceivingly straight full of bends
Faces known but I love unknown
Am I in a crowd or just alone?
Skimming floating in an ethereal hue
It’s always grey not a shade of blue
Bleary eyed I wipe with my hands
Am I here or in distant lands?
Stupor ridden I walk in a daze
Though million suns on my head blaze
In my eyes the fires gleam
Am I awake or still in my dream?

"Why one writes is a question I can never answer easily, having so often asked it of myself. I believe one writes because one has to create a world in which one can live. I could not live in any of the worlds offered to me – the world of my parents, the world of war, the world of politics. I had to create a world of my own, like a climate, a country, an atmosphere in which I could breathe, reign, and recreate myself when destroyed by living. That, I believe, is the reason for every work of art.
...
"We also write to heighten our own awareness of life. We write to lure and enchant and console others. We write to serenade our lovers. We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospection. We write, like Proust, to render all of it eternal, and to persuade ourselves that it is eternal. We write to be able to transcend our life, to reach beyond it. We write to teach ourselves to speak with others, to record the journey into the labyrinth. We write to expand our world when we feel strangled, or constricted, or lonely … When I don’t write, feel my world shrinking. I feel I am in prison. I feel I lose my fire and my color. It should be a necessity, as the sea needs to heave, and I call it breathing."
('The New Woman', 1974)