A small storm is not enough
To upset a nation
But while others go about their lives
I've been uprooted.
A twister, destroying all in its path
Made of horrid mistakes and promises
Swept over my small world
And demolished it.
While others, free from grief
Sent only meaningless prayers,
I eagerly awaited a kind spirit
That was never to arrive.
So here I sit, on this solitary stump,
Wishing for it all to be over
But the weatherman said there's a big storm coming
In mid to late October.

Sitting behind a computer screen
Trying not to succumb to the temptations of self-loathing
Media has become the cause of my downfall
And the primary causation of self infliction
For months and years I thought and believed
That I was fine, that I was okay
But the slightest contemplation of death
Still brought me relief
I find my fingers running through the keys and letters
Scrolling past every page and article
The demons feed on the lack of confidence
The low self-esteem
And I, the degraded human being
I still set a goal for non-existence
A perfection too impossible to achieve
Yet I know that I’ll always be another face in the crowd
Another flame that’s about to die out
Another girl with too many scars,
Another girl bound to fall apart

n.j.

So, the universe is dying. It has been proven. All starlight and galactic all, every illuminant visible is dissipating. Stretching and fizzing out to cold dark nothingness, eliminating any twinkle known in her ever widening abyss, we are destined to an age of floating rocks, lifeless. Shivering howls of worlds already abandoned are an eerie silence imminent. The cold, the dark, the void of sound or light, is depraved sensory. Death is ultimate ultimatum to any and all. Even these words. As nothing is to be, see, hear, feel, smell or taste, just dust speckling her.

Long drawn out inarticulateness, I wonder if she shall ever be able to speak again. Waxing moon in candelabra sky, lid, the blue, goodbye. A lull in space noise clamor finds faint ping. In an arched cosmos, bend an ear, hear her sing. She softens orbiting dominions, pleases an empire's hard wire. Letting sound stem, turn out, and cry, a gush of heaving out is implied. Imploding upon a deafening madness she dies. Big Bang to Softened Ping, we're somewhere in the middle of her journey.

A          feeling          of         claustrophobia         has        begun         to         confine         me.

This swamp of ideas thickens inside me,  the murky clay mud making each step twice as demanding as the last. The once clear flowing waters of my dreams seem to be crystallizing, clouding and freezing over, ceasing the stream of my escape. My brain is callusing over incarcerating me, forcing me to experience the hardening of my own being. A reaction inside halting my imagination and depriving me of the ability to call out for help. These thoughts and words I evacuate onto this page only act as a catalyst speeding the process of my inevitable silence. There will come a time when the swamps have solidified, and the waters of my dreams become frozen clouded crystals trapped in place. My brain will develop into a callous, rendering my mind mute, I can feel this metamorphosis materializing yet there is nothing I can do to stop it, the development has already begun, all I can do is wait until a feeling of...

A          feeling          of         claustrophobia         has        begun         to         confine         me.