tear stained lined paper
as the pen scrambles angrily
writing about everyday life
as her demons approach her

she slams them inside her
journal which she keeps
to escape the nightmare
she's living in

- escape from reality

POSTCARD TO A POET


I don't want to write it down.
I don't want to give those thoughts life form
cause once you put them down on that soft pillow of memory….
Once you do that,
It becomes truth!
The one that haunts you....
The one that comes in your dreams
The truth that never knew lie-if.

You become its slave,
You share your lunch with it.
You just dream about that moment trapped on paper
that moment you decided
to give your thoughts wings to eternity.

Your words -
your destiny,
yet even sworn enemy.

Listening to Music,
Slipping between the notes,
Letting myself get lost in the feeling-
The emotion- and stealing
Back the last bit of sanity.
The bit that I had been using
As a tug-o-war rope
Between me and the people
Who can't really see.

Writing.
Letting the thoughts flow
Through me as I dream of
Something soothing,
And creating something
Great to share with others.
Something maybe they
Can relate to,
But it's okay if they can't,
Because to be honest it was meant
More for self-healing than
For others' need to critique.

Art.
All aspects,
From drawing to painting
To molding and crafting or knitting.
Something to paint the scene
That's in my head,
The one that I can't see dead.
A form of venting,
True,
But also of sharing a view.
Casting to canvas,
Or whatever else you'd use,
The beauty of the world,
Or the painful bits,
You choose.

Escapes from my reality,
A cruise around the world,
A chance to see my dreams
In actuality,
Instead of forgetting them too soon.
A chance to chase my pain away,
To feel a little less bruised.
A moment to breathe with ease
At least, and it's never a moment to soon.