.

The tips of my fingers tap melodies upon my plastic keyboard. My limbs yearn for an artistic outlet, again. I say 'again' because I have let that fire fade from my breast. A soft, flickering flame is what it has become. I'm going forth to fetch some firewood...

.

There's a hunger roiling deep inside of me. It shifts to my lips and my fingertips, deftly wandering around on foreign skin, and tasting passion where passion gives. Rejoicing in one's embrace; sweet and stimulating, fleeting as it may, it burns stoutly all the while.

winter of our discontent

I've spent numerous days counting out the many grievances of the world upon achy fingertips:
1. Overpopulation -- a gentle flick of the thumb.
2. Dissociation -- the index gets a pinch.
3. Quality/Quantity -- the middle bends back under pressure..
(just to name a few)

But, wait. Let's turn this around and take a different approach, maybe towards enlightenment rather than burdensome.

I lay my palms up so my skin can feel the open air with its full attention. The sensation simultaneously makes my head swim with pleasure, my eyes close as if to draw focus towards feeling every molecule floating in the air. This, and much more. I am most enraptured with my ability to surround myself with life and the things that I love: growing knowledge, a healthy body, kind souls,  creative minds; an insatiable yearning, mountainous books for me to befriend, and John Steinbeck.

I'm trying.

animosity, my friend.

I've got issues. I mean, who doesn't? We live, we deal, we escape, we cope; whatever works for you.
My problem is that I am a good person. I have a kind soul and I aim to please, even though it means putting my needs into a deep, dark hole that no one --not even me-- will ever find. Well, my needs have grown putrid, oozing foul pestilence from their pores, seeping into the walls that house them. They rise on full moons to scrape and crawl their way to me; haunting me like my own little zombie army. Slowly, this pestilence makes its way into my veins, and to my soul, where it feeds on the best and brightest of my qualities.

I can't get myself to type the words. I still shrink away, pusillanimously.
My mother is killing me.
There. I said it.

Emotionally, she is dwindling my will to live; a black hole that feeds on guilt, obligation, and piousness.

I've got to stick with it for six more months... I can leave her, and my mind can, again, parry these violent thoughts that plague me.

It's about that time.

I'm at the age when things start to fall apart for the people around me. Slowly, we are all plucked from the warmth of a nurturing breast and shoved into the cold depths of reality. I can accept death and pain quite easily. I have this knack of taking it personal, as if my soul feeds on the stuff, but the hardest part is watching the ones closest to me crumble --seeing tears drop and facades quake. No. You don't get to feel miserable because that's all mine. It's the only thing I have. You live day to day in a state of ignorant bliss. Leave my world alone. Your kind are not welcome here. But, that's the thing, little girl, you're not the only one.. Mountains rise and crumble all the time. Let them in.

Let them in.

How broken can a person be before they cross that fine line between the living and the dead?
I wonder.
I ache.
I shout at the stars above me, 'damn you! Take me already and leave me at peace.'

and all I can think of is...
"pull me out of the wall. I'm stuck. Pull me to the other side."

Nothing feels quite like it did before.