I can shake off everything if I write;
my sorrows disappear,
my courage is reborn.
-Anne Frank

When I write and pour out my troubles
I speak to the invisible audience
To the page, to the future
To my friends, and myself
And those things I hate and love
I spill out the ink of my worries and past
My thoughts and feelings and doubt
And for a moment, a handful of planck seconds,
I have nothing, feel nothing, *am nothing,
But one entity with myself
The little trouble I have is voiced and shed,
And I cry, but do not worry so much about it
I lose my gloomy dark thoughts and
Lighten up, and feel... not warmer exactly
Not happier either, but more.
More neutral and more myself, and more happy
And just more
And I again have courage and strength
To continue living without being weighed down

So I've got two new bracelets
One's actually a necklace but who cares

I've got blue and reddish beads dangling
From this necklace, wrapped
Five times around my wrist
And sometimes the bobbles get under
My wrist when I write

I've got five peace signs melded
Together, gold toned and metal
I must admit, the reason I prefer it
Is because of a tiny imperfection
A little spike of metal on the second
Only I know it's there and it's
My silly imperfect secret

So there you have it
My two new bracelets...
I think I'll name them
Pentapax and sanguine
Bet you can't guess why

Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion; it is not the expression of personality, but an escape from personality. But, of course, only those who have personality and emotion know what it means to want to escape from these things. - T. S. Eliott*

So maybe by pouring out our emotions and personalities, overflowing and drowning pages in the ink of our words, maybe this is how some escape from themselves and feeling. By expulsing their repugnant selves, using the energy behind self-loathing or -fear to rid themselves of themselves. Perhaps that way we can live with ourselves and all our faults. They say when you stare into the abyss, the abyss stares back. Thus, deep self-reflection for too long reveals the abyss in us all. This deep, animal emptyness, clawing the sides of its pit, becoming and creating an overwhelming gnawing of absence. This feeling that you lack, this feeling of loss, of some unknown, perhaps this is what we poets write for. We write to find our unkown selves by escaping our known selves.

I saw you flutter and die
At the crossroads
Your wing-pages flipping quickly
Then slowly, desperately as cars pass
As if your pathetic fluttering can lift
The only thing you can call a body,
A flat, limp *** of paper
Shuddering and shifting when a
Quickmoving elephant runs by

I saw you flutter and die
At the crossroads
The muscles of your sides
Heaving in, out, in out
Gasp for ink and blood
Shudder with need
As if that inhale, intake
Of gasoline soaked air will
Replenish the lack of life in you

I saw you flutter and die
At the crossroads
I saw you die
And flutter no more

Who are you Sang?
I know the body your face belongs to,
I saw him a few days ago at my brother's school
But you're a different person,
You're born of my dreams
Long black hair
And tall lanky body
In my dream you were my age
Following me around high school
But your real life doppelganger
Was just goofing off with his friends
Why did you so capture my dreaming mind?
And why did I name you?
I've never named a dreamizen before
And so what's up with 'Sanguine'?

Scarlet is the only paint I know
Gone from my palette forever
Are greens and blues of every hue
Yellows and oranges no longer acceptable
Purples blacks and whites, no more
Red, scarlet crimson; only these
The color of blood and roses
But wait, I don't like order
So let's say that french kisses are red
And cool water is too
Redefining red as I wish, I make
Soft curling ferns and fuzzy bellied hedgehogs red
And you know what?
Scarlet is now the only paint I know

Red lines appear as
I pull this silver blade through flesh
Blood dripping, oozing from the cut
Red valleys and redder rivers
Scarlet is the only paint I know
Allowing, of course, for silver
A lovely edging, with a dangerously
Wicked edge
Then you add fire
Flames of scarlet orange and yello
Licking, touching, brushing the edges
Lightly trailing against the surface of meat
Burning, cooking, melting
Delicious
This fire burns so deep it sears
It melts the very fat, hidden beneath
And then it's over
It's done, finished, complete
No more flames
But the blades are back
Slicing up the scorched flesh
Anyone fancy some steak?