Insomnia

up late;
can't sleep
words run through my mind
won't stop
won't let me sleep
i should lay in bed, let the sleep take hold of me,
but i can't. i wont!
sleep will not come to my tired body. not yet.
alcohol runs through my veins:
not drunk, but not quite sober - in between.
stuck in between, as usual.
Caught in a trap of my own doing.
my eyes ache
my heart quakes
i long for rest, but my hand won't stop; my mind won't stop.
Need to write. Have to write.
This is what makes me exist. my words - written scribbled hurriedly on a page brings my being, my character, into existence. without this, i would cease to exist, disappear like my reflection in the mirror.
can't stop, won't stop.
need to sleep, but the pencil won't stop moving across the page. I don't know how to stop.

My web page won't load and so i am scratching my words on paper for the first time in ages. and my hand hurts; it's barely legible. but i just keep on writing. when will it end?
drunken words sing out to me; illegible.

Ophelia stands to my left, starring glass eyed at the water before her feet.
why is this the poster beside my writing space? Why do i admire, adore, a crazy suicidal character? why do i think her soul is beautiful? romantic? why is this idea of drowning one self, (insanity) so romantic to me?

Beautiful . . . innocent . . . dead.

my hand can't keep up with my thoughts - it rushes across the page moving as fast as it can, but still my mind races ahead and must pause to let it catch up. I hope I can make sense of this all when I slow down and take a breath.
Free verse - I haven't written this free, this unstructured, in years. I can't stop. my mind races
keep on moving on. i only stop when my hand aches too much, i wish i could keep writing for all of eternity. I can barely keep my eyes open, yet my hand keeps moving at lightning speed. I can't even see what i'm writing anymore. I'm not wearing my glasses and yet i still continue to write. my hand aches with the pain of a million words scratched in blood in a second and yet i keep on writing.
i can't stop.
i will keep writing till the end.
till my end.
till i collapse.

stop.
breath.
exhale.
Enough.

I've said enough.

Paperbag princess

I just came back from a halloween kegger, and i noticed something, well, actually Chris, my boyfriend, pointed it out to me. I was dressed as the "Paperbag Princess" and every girl there knew who i was and complimented me on my costume, but only 2 guys (not counting chris since he suggested it) seemed to know who i was. most guys said, "what's with the paperbag?" now i thought this was one of those stories that everyone knew as a child. robert munsch was an awesome children story writer, but it seems that the "paperbag princess" stood out mainly in girls' minds and not guys'. could it be because the protagonist is a strong female character, and the prince she goes to save is a stuck up jerk? hmmm, something to think about.

Girlie moments

With blow-dried hair and painted face, i stepped outside to brace the world. More effort than usual went into my 'look' today. i wanted to look beautiful - sexy . . . perfect. But as i gaze at my hair, all i see are the split ends - every strand of hair is split. When i catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, all i see are the blemishes. i sit at work and cut the ends trying to remove all the splits, but i can always see one more. i should just shave my head. It's too difficult to see the Beauty in me. i look everywhere for Her, but She's hiding today. i want so much for Beauty to seep from my pores, but all that seeps is grease. i know i shouldn't care this much about how i look, but somedays (today) i long to be gorgeous.

Stop. Rewrite.

With blow-dried hair and painted face, I stepped outside to brace the world. More effort than usual went into my 'look' today. I wanted to look beautiful - sexy . . . perfect. I feel like a goddess floating on clouds; my hair so soft to touch I've been running my fingers through my hair all day. So now my hair is not quite as straight as it was when the day began. I love the way my hair feels when I've straightened it - soft and delicate against my cheeks. It smells pretty today - I smell pretty today. Perfume and make-up all for me. pink eyeshadow to match my shirt- brushed every so lightly on with eyeliner to draw attention to my Gorgeous green eyes. Every time I pass a mirror today, I stop to stare at the Beauty in me. And it feels good. I don't care if it seems shallow. Some days it's nice to feel beautiful.

Eeyore Days

Dark gray clouds follow overhead.
"tut, tut, it looks like rain"
Frigid wind blows through my hair; my skin is icy cold to touch.
Someone has tripped and popped my red balloon.
The sun is hiding from me. Was it something I said?
summer has disappeared and deserted me, as fall and winter are ganging up on me.
My world has turned dull and gray.
The one i love has lost interest
and left me here
dying - crying - alone.
I have become invisible to him; my sobs are noiseless now.
All my tears won't bring him back.
Where has the sun gone?

Fire Goddess

Buring red.
Flames flowing in the wind.
Red satin spinning 'round.
Soft to touch - red on my lips.

Burn. Burn. Burn.

The dark of night.
Silence all around.
Red flashes of light in the distance.
Red satin twirling floating on air.
Sweet berry aroma - red in my nose.

Fly. Fly. Fly.

Raise your wings to the stars.
Soar amongst the clouds
Red satin trails swirl above us.
Sirens sound - red in my ears.

Live. Live. Live.

Red hair and finger tips.
Fairy dust and pixie wings.
Someone to admire.
Red satin sprawled upon the earth.
Bitter sweet - red on my tongue

Behold - the red goddess!

Insight from a Bee

"You are beautiful and wonderful and perfect."
Why can't I see what you see?
Why can't I love me?

I feel so useless sometimes. Like I contribute nothing. I feel as if I've been sitting in this same position for so long that I don't know how to stand up anymore. For years I have had a plan for my future and now that i'm almost at the next step, I'm not sure I want to go in this direction anymore. I'm not sure where my path is anymore.

Confused . . . lost . . . scared.

I am Alice and the broom sweepers have swept the path away ahead of and behind me. All that is left is the small square underneath my feet.

"It doesn't matter what you do,
It doesn't matter where you go,
as long as you are you.
You are beautiful. You are wonderful. You are perfect.
You are you."

I am me.
and I like me . . .
sometimes.