her reclusive nature
was
stealing any words
of
inspirational longings
for
she waited for such
hope
of moving herself
to
a place where she
had
a muse that captured
her.

to write is to
free
to write is to
liberate
to write is to
communicate
emotions one cannot
name
the shrinks call it
alexithymia
a fully lost inability
to
form any connection to
oneself.

dizziness stirring a
self
who begins to
fear
waking up from a
deep
slumber in her
bed
than dying to be
taken
from a world she
so
dreads to exist
in.

she sits in the gutters of
despair
looking up to the
stars
they illuminate brightness
yet
the darkness is far
greater
than a single exploding
star
to pacify her emptiness
where
repetition of existence
overflows.

© Sia Jane