Friday, July 12, 2013

June 14, 2013


My circumstances wrought by no other
Than the disheveled mess I hesitate to call a woman,
This disordered soul that Augustine said is my punishment.

I believed I could call forward Hell and tame it;
Thought I could waste away in the basement
Of my mind
I so often abuse
With an excess of poetry, and then chemically induce
To try to see things as they really are.

Wednesday, July 3, 2013


The self is a beautiful thing
You cannot confide depression or spiritual insight
In another being
But the self aches with you and listens
He or she,
They cannot feel your soul move in thought
He or she
Is preoccupied with his or her own musings
But not the self
The self bears any weight you bear
And so I find more comfort in solitude
Than ever with other selves.