Is it easier to kiss sanity
or sleep with the insane?
Should I stop wasting time
or become the Virgin Mary of ideas?
-blessed Father give me thy fruit of passion.
The problem is, I find us
in the blank pages
that concludes a novel-
the pages that call forth
and the silence of your room.
Shall I be the drunk who spills
her mind through the
aged drops of red, red rage?
Am I just another post that
is skimmed through, processed and
lost in the infinite scroll of time?
The puppy that chases his waging tail,
indifferent to the absurdity of his actions,
mirrors my heart; I find myself with ripe questions, but lost answers.
How is it as a fan girl of articulation,
I am more rooted by sensation and the
Is the bittersweet swallow of homemade
coffee and senseless lip marks a long my figure the make up of who I am?
Do I only speak in sarcasm and my
heroin-like thirst for knowledge?
When I write, I search: digression,
after digression, a connotation to who I Am.
A map of what I touch and seek,
a draft of which mountain I climb,
stumble, and conquer.