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Egg. Feel the stickiness. Hanging like snot from my fingers. Bright yellow snot. I rub it into my hair, massage, gently coat each strand with the foul smelling mixture, my hands slipping, egg-webs in my fingers. What now? Leave it on for twenty minutes. So I wash my hands and seat myself on the pot, take up my book and read.
This is a new book. All about spirituality and being and not being. The cover is the same colour as my egg, bright yellow. I borrowed from a friend of mine today- she's a big sucker for this sort of thing. Always talking about salvation and shit like that. Me? I'm just bored. Got nothing better to do you see.

Contd. later.

Writing

My mind is dull
The ink dried up
The paper scratchy
Rough

I coax and plead
Get angry and mumble
A dry, colourless
Tub

Hopeless, I beckon
With my last breath
Tired and Weary
Flustered
I beg

The vent is now open
For what?
Will it come?
Open defeated,
God help me,
I'm done.

A Poem from when I was young (er)...

I want to be beautiful
I want to be love
I want to be
Pain
And bottomless sensation

I shall dance in the wilderness
Swaying with the trees
Crying through the riverbed
Making honey with the bees

I am goddess of divinity
Mother of the sea
Sleeping with the thunder gods
Floating on the breeze

I can hear the ancients calling
I can feel them take my hand
I can see the waters parting
I can taste the moon-kissed sand

I am leaving
For a people
Not completely my own
I may not return today
Nor ever ever more...

Dead

My ink is running out
The voices around me fading
My eyes have turned inward
Upon their sockets
Searching through the dusty boxes of my mind
Ancient wisps of memory
Forgotten leftovers of life

My fingers are cold against my cheek
My eyes stung by the wind
Sleep grows as she grows around me
Cocooning me in her warmth
Holding me tight against her breast
Bearing me through those invisible gates
That will close behind me forever...