I imagine publishing
these little poems
that I write
in my kitchen,
and my car and the work
bathroom.
Or anywhere it hits.
What would people
think of the author?
Would some girl
in 20 years,
find my book in the
back of her high school library
and relate so deeply
that she also begins writing.
Or is all of this just drool
from a depressed person,
no more than an open journal.

An arm reaches up towards the sky,
Am I to believe it's mine?

The ceiling shifts under an unyielding stare,
Am I to look away unquestioningly?

If all there is to mange is a consciousness,
Am I to believe I'm stable?

The midnight's so dark these days,
Where's the stars to guide me?

Guide me.

Guide me.

Guide me somewhere.

Guide me.

Guide me.

Guide me somewhere.

Can't step foot outside this forest,
Am I to believe I'm loveable?

Love me.

Love me.

Love me somehow.

Love me.

Love me.

With everything that's been given,
Am I to reclaim what's left behind?

Left me.

Left me.

Left me somewhere.

Left me.

Left me.

Dull and hardened after the war,
Won't find solace at a dive bar,
Lock me up and crash the car,
I hate who I am thus far.

The midnight's so dark these days,
Where's the stars to guide me?

Guide me.

Guide me.

Guide me somewhere.

Guide me.

Guide me.

Guide me somewhere,
So I can die anywhere,
Anywhere but here.
Don't want to die here.