writing: early march

her eyes were tired from the light of the day. the projected emotions of imperfection cast through her like haze on an old window. there weren't any enchanting smells, ideas, or even an arid breeze to displace the loneliness from her individualized entity. lost in the waking dreams of her aspirations, clouded by the ideals of others. will she ever really be in the driver's seat?

the only refuge to her internal detriment is the relief of writing. somehow when she releases emphatically visionary poetry to the universe of the internet- for no one and anyone to read. usually a snippet of convoluted intellectual diatribe, but always harmonic to the healing of her soul. today she writes:

   "what thoughts have i extrapolated toward the universe to deserve this karmic negativity?   please, this frazzled energy is killing me.   pinching freshly cut grass blades, wondering what God has bestowed upon me.   sticky residue on my fingertips.   lonely thoughts trace my lips."

as well as:

‎"if the world went mute and sounds meant nothing, if letters were numbers and numbers were colors, how would you feel about right now? would your thoughts and emotions become more singular than a portrayed sentence?"

the westerly afternoon light is now in her eyes, her wrists sweat, her stomach gives sensations of hunger. but she feels unaccomplished and underserving of a hearty meal... taking without giving, consuming without replenishing... why? she wonders...

until tomorrow..