A Woman Who Writes Feels

With This Pen I Take In Hand My Selves And With These Dead Disciples I Will Grapple. Though Rain Curses The Window Let The Poem Be Made.

[i] Have Fantasies Of Killing Myself And Thus Being The Powerful One Not The Powerless One.

Not That It Was Beautiful, But That, In The End, There Was A Certain Sense Of Order There; Something Worth Learning In That Narrow Diary Of My Mind

I Would Like A Simple Life / Yet All Night I Am Laying / Poems Away In A Long Box.

I Am So Imperfect, Can You Love Me When Really My Soul Is Deformed? Will You Love Me Anyhow?