Angry again, so frustrated.  But not like before.  Not like the night I swallowed the pills.  Don't worry about me.  I may be lost, but my life will go on.

 

I wish I was something.  I am a daughter, a mother, a wife, a friend.  Everything but me.  A lost sparrow, looking for safety before the upcoming storm.  No, stupid analogy.  There is no upcoming storm, no dragons to slay, no epic battles to fight.  Just me, lost. 

 

I burn inside with the need to create something lasting.  Something that is just me, an expression of self.  Painting eludes me, mixed-mashed colors on a cheap canvas.  Sketching, pottery, sculpture.  Not soothing to my soul.  All that remains is words on paper, snippets of stories, sulky poems and depressing prose.  Never complete, never published, never for anybody's eyes but mine.  But it is all-encompassing. 

 

Every moment is a phrase in my mind, a recollection of words, just words, torturing my soul until I find the right place to put them - a story not yet written, a poem with lines not yet formed.  Literary pictures painted in snippets and phrases, but nothing to tie them together.  What good is a beautiful scene with no world in which to reside?