He could write only perhaps a page at a time so scarred was he of losing the brilliance that he had somehow found again. After a few minutes of writing he was haunted by introspection reading back on what he had just written he couldn't escape the notion his words had been penned by some greater man and if he were to continue, to add to it, he would only be lessening a beautiful portrait. The effect was that each page he wrote looked like a biography with each chapter recorded by a different writer giving his work the disjointed feeling of having many contributors all compiling their experiences to tell this one story. He had never bothered to understand Durkheim's theory of alienation, but he imagined it was something close to this – not recognising himself in every story he wrote, only knowing that it was somehow someone different each time and that they were all trapped somewhere deep inside him.

This is my plea,
My one call for help.
Please save me!
Save me from my boring drivel called life,
I fear I have run out of the words to say.
No longer do thought flow free from my mind,
Instead they lay lost in the sea blandness.
Save me! Save me!
Rekindle my spark!
Ignite the dormant coals of my soul.
Let my words flow from my brain,
Give me more to say then just hello and goodbye.

children dying in a barron land
to young to know or understand
no food to eat in a land so dry
we sit and watch them as they die
filled with tears as they pass away
why does it have to be this way
is this the way it has to be
do they die to set them free

The moon
Above the snow-covered mountain
Dropped hailstones.

Their are boxes
and boxes,
and it's all
piling up
over time, over lots of time.
There's a lot of it.
It's all useless,
and I don't care about it.
And it sits there
in my stomach,
and it mumbles things.
I don't think that it's in a
particularly
good mood.
Maybe because I don't care about it.
It sags,
and every time I walk by it
I think of
her.
And it's taking up space.
        
        "What the ****,
are you still doing here?"
                yelling, I'm yelling now.
        "You are useless, and I wish
that you would go away."

But she doesn't go away.

kacey tried to ****
herself at thirteen; she cried
when it didn't work.

she didn't try once
more; she was tired of feeling
insignificant
in everything she did.

In the dark,
All alone,
We walk.
We try,
Or so we think,
To find light.
We travel through,
Thinking we are looking.
How few of us,
Can see the light,
With eyes open.
Everything is light,
We just chose to be blind.
Blind,
In the darkness.