Midnight

Death I am

I have begun writing again. I a few of my old works
last week, and today I felt the familiar daze that signaled
it was time to write once more. It is the oddest
sensation... when I write, I barely know where I am. I am
so buried in my own thoughts and musings and emotions I
feel almost as if I am floating. A faint melancholy
settles over me like fine snow and from my hands spill
words and lines and every scar amplified on that cold,
unfeeling page. It seems that those poets who saw as I
did, who knew the pain of a bright blue sky, who understood
the dust and the darkness... it seems that they all
suffered "mental illness" and died young. They live in
tragedy and die the same. The poem devours the poetess.
It is like the child who, in being born, tears something
vital within it's own mother, killing her as it begins to
breathe. This journal entry is inferior. I think that I
may be spent for the day, though I've only written a poem
and a half. Here is my newest edition, though it shall go
through many changes until I find it worthy of any sort of
public circulation - as I occasionally send small
collections of it around with friends who are curious).
DEATH AM I

Death am I
Gentle reaper of flesh
Collecter of souls
Ender of all
I am destruction incarnate
With eyes to see your tears
And sometimes a heart
When the hours is right
I shall enfold you
In my cold embrace
I shall take you down
And whisper to you like a lover
While you sleep

I am not pleased with it now that I see it again. Expect
another version sometime in the near future, and after
this, perhaps I shall put up another couple of my favorate
poems. I write blank verse, for there I am truly free...