Hi, it’s me, a little miss Nobody

And I want to share, is anybody listening

All of those times I was strong

I carried on, breathless and silent

Now I’m alone.  Does anybody hear my screams?
The words, they’re biting.

Yet the pages are still so dry

I stare mindless into outer space because

Nobody can hear me, nobody will see me.
Out there in the great big world of drivers,

So certain of the way they’re going.

Taking this road, that road, winding.

And yet here I am all turned around and sliding.

They make it seems so easy,

They make it seems so Right.

Each one has someone beside them.

Each one has someone there behind them.
Steadily I take back the wheel, so afraid of

What lies in front, the headlights are dirty.

The darkness has fallen, and now it’s cold out.

Can anyone hear me? I’m blinded in twilight.

The sparkling shimmer of water on the road guides me.

Back to the freeway where I turned off, for another broken dream.

It’s fading now, the traffic is slowing down.

Somebody crashed.  They jumped out to find,

We’re all just trying to figure this out

And I’ve figured out
I will go it all alone.  I can make it, but I’ll still be alone in the end when I crash.

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Writers Block

For some reason, I’m suffering from unshakeable depression.  It’s as though there’s an unsatiable chasm in my chest, draining away all of my energy, creativity, and distorting all of my emotions.
This is also affecting my ability to write, and make beautiful things come to life in words.  Which causes further frustration, leading to more wilting away of self.
I’m finally home with my husband again – there’s no desire or longing for our relationship to improve, I wonder why it even exists.
I’m finally back in my house, to do as I please – and the reminders that I am literally alone in this empty part of the country creep in, shadowing the gratitude I have to being home.
I’m finally able to sit down and write my story for an upcoming anthology – and nothing feels right.  Nothing desires to be written.  The story I am working on I am going to shelve, and see if something else comes up.  I have until mid-May, surely there’s a story floating out there wishing to be told.  I hope very much that it jumps into my head and allows me to bear it witness.
Story telling is my life.  Without it I am nothing.  My religious convictions are my life, without them I am nothing.
Today, I lie in bed – my mother tending my son, both thinking I am asleep – as my emptiness lends to the withering of my soul.  I must find something to slay the beast, in order to perk my spirits!  Alas, is this depression debilitating.
And I roll over, closing my eyes, wishing the world away.