I was once like you,
but now I am a here,
I sit and wait for hours and days,
why can’t anyone see me,
they seem to look right through,
I feel no hunger, feel no thirst,
what is this that I have become,
I am like the moon and sun,
caught on a film that always runs,
I am lost forever in this twilight haze,
so many things I do not understand,
I walk around on a busy street,
eyes to eyes that never meet,
that spot on the road looks so familiar,
immense pain it would not wait,
I think this was where I met my fate.

What is strange is the lack of reason,
that blue is my favorite season.
Sadness be my bottle, and sorrow be my fuel.
Darkness shows me where the light is living, and so
blue forever rules.
An ache of puzzling pleasure
is the thorn of dark despair.
So oddly is the sound of strained emotion music in the air.
The wall of bleak depravity is like a blanket warm and soft,
enrapturing me in melancholy and keeping me aloft.
Woe is so soon my watchword, and waning resolve my cry.
Teardrops are like candy, and moonlight my exclusive sky.
So addictive it is to weep I say,
and many would think me mad,
but still it seems depression is the best I’ve ever had.
The reason does not matter, for I shall find some cause with ease;
and the season of blue,
while its ways ensue,
will give me such a tease.

I write for two reasons:
to make myself feel everything
to make myself feel nothing

Once in awhile, neither happens.
Once in awhile, both do.

Love is a precarious thing
           A precious thing
When you're handed someones heart
               .......Hold it gently
Don't drop it or let it slip away
       Even when you can't love back
             For whatever reason you think
                  Care...
Care about them
      It's not too much to ask
Sometimes love is given
      With NO expectations
Simply because you're deserving
    There's nothing more to do
          Except, remember..
               Love is........
                       *A precious thing

There's a hollow kind of despondency
as you reminisce of home,
find yourself alone
But it soon fades and you're left
with discontent.

For there's always a harsher journey,
always a greater Odyssey,
always that which you cannot do.

And we all want to be travellers, unravellers
of mysteries, explorers and deplorers
of comfort.

But we can't. And that's not our fault,
that's just because there's only so much
You can bring about in the world.
Because really we're all hurled
around on the oceans of chance
And so; for the most part you're left
with discontent.

Which is why I wrote this.

Silence is not keeping quiet
because you have nothing
to say...

Silence is having a lot
to say but no desire
to speak...

She's an alphabet artist
she paints in words,

from a palette of adjectives,
nouns and verbs,

the landscape she finds
in the folds of her mind

she exhibits in volumes of verse.