Sleeping with the Devil, rising as an Angel


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

unspoken thoughts

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.





Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741