Is it easier to kiss sanity 



or sleep with the insane? 



Should I stop wasting time



or become the Virgin Mary of ideas?



-blessed Father give me

thy fruit of passion. 




 

The problem is, I find us 



in the blank pages 



that concludes a novel-



the pages that call forth



unspoken thoughts



and the silence of your room. 




 

Shall I be the drunk who spills



her mind through the



aged drops of red, red rage? 



Am I just another post that



is skimmed through, processed and



lost in the infinite scroll of time? 




The puppy that chases his waging tail,



indifferent to the absurdity of his actions,



mirrors my heart; I find myself with ripe

questions, but lost answers. 



How is it as a fan girl of articulation,



I am more rooted by sensation and the 



unspoken? 




Is the bittersweet swallow of homemade



coffee and senseless lip marks a long

my figure the make up of who I am?



Do I only speak in sarcasm and my


heroin-like thirst for knowledge?




When I write, I search: digression,



after digression, a connotation to who I Am. 



A map of what I touch and seek, 



a draft of which mountain I climb,



stumble, and conquer.