I don't know why I'm so sad. It's a deep ache. Saudade. Maybe, or just feeling lost. Like a lamb in the woods, far from its mother, or a sheep that has wandered from the flock. But also, it feels like a boredom in my life. I no longer live it. I have become the artist, and not the art, as I was warned once. I love to sleep because I love to dream. It is endless, exciting, dramatic. I do every impossible thing. Nothing in life excites me anymore, not even new places and new people. Only stories, only words. I have leached every illusion out of life onto pages and bound them up and shoved them on shelves, never to be felt again. I am like those books, collecting dust.
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ECSTASY
Poetrysuppose Truth was a woman... * * * A collection of poems & thoughts about life and death and everything in between. * * * Disclaimer: Everything you read here was collected directly from my notes and journals, so please excuse any excess passion or...
