it’s never the benign or innocuous matters of the heart.

always the flesh and blood of unbridled emotion.

forever the pity and the sorrow tearing at my fingers

compelling me to put pen to paper

in a display of unmitigated self.

when I write, I can’t help but be anyone else.

it’s the despair I bury, the prayers

borne witness to by the soft devoted pages of my baby blue journal -

why can’t I be her? why can’t I be someone RIGHT?

why can’t I be someone who makes a lover feel beautiful inside?

why can’t I make time, why must I while away the hours

wishing, lamenting, succumbing to numbing the pain?

oh, how being me drives me insane!