Posted in Art, Poetry


Only my books anoint me, and a few friends, those who reach into my veins. -Anne Sexton

This Anne. She knew what she was talking about. Crowds? Who needs them.

Lost souls peer into mine, but i tremble in fear. What do they do when i speak? Turn into strangers.

I don’t move. I wait, wondering if they will return? All the lonely hearts disappear from sight.

I opened my mouth and said all the wrong things. Their ears stung. Ice clung to their clothes. They didn’t know how to help me.

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