The prompt asks for a title and I laugh - as if anything could put a name on me or this mood. Proceed with caution ye faint of heart or laden with morality.

I am in a bad place.
Skipped school today to sleep instead. My fucking head has hurt for days.
Thing is this - I am sick to death of all the darkness.
Sick of the literal gray that surrounds us, the rain that won't let up.
I feel connected to the weather as of late, like it and I,
we are the same.
Metaphors are my strong suit and the sun, well it peeks through the clouds much like my emotional reprieves from the black.
I am faced with all my demons - I hate them all and love them too.
I struggle within myself to find what is "right",
all I knew has changed or at least I think it has.
I am no longer sure I believe in anything "correct"
I may be becoming selfish somehow.
I won't get what I want, I never do and yet....
I want it goddamn it,
even though it is wrong on so many levels and right, on far more.
I speak in tongues today - I have been like this for a week.
The poet in me is alive and hungry.
And I don't give a flying fuck about anything else.
I am drowning in clean laundry that begs for a proper home. The dishes in the sink sit now in cold murky slime.
I sit here in my nightgown, hair up in a clip, I can smell my own discontent.
I don't care.
I know I need to refocus -
Stop eating poison.
get on a schedule.
Find sleep.
Be organized and methodical.
Get my ass in the school game again and get my shit together.
My seams are all burst apart and I find no happiness in anything that I do -
OTHER that THIS.
I just want to be left alone.
I want the world and all it's needs to go need someone else for a change.
I want to seclude myself in a remote cabin somewhere at the end of the friggen world and be with myself and my words.
I want to be forgotten for real because I feel like I am everyday, so - okay then...
let me be.
I am angry.
Angry for being walked on and treated like shit for those I contort into positions for that literally hurt me - like literally
stretch me to places that are painful to get to.
Over and over and over.
Suck the life force straight from me, swish it around in their mouths and then spit it in my face.
I want to write.
I want to write it all and then...
I want it published - bound in seams that cannot be broken.
Printed on paper that is owned and cannot be bought away.
I want it to be the manual -
how not to fuck up your daughter.
how not to destroy your wife.
how not to abuse your mother.
How not to be quiet in a world that begs us to only talk pretty to your face and talk shit behind your back.
So much.
I listened last night, listened to Dave.
On my porch in the humid dank darkness.
His piano how the keys hit so hard and fluid.
Out of my hands for now.
"I feel like I'm crazy" - I became those keys.
And I feel that way.
Crazy and like music.
Like rage and like beauty.
Like secret sex put off for years because of its wrongness, tension built like a wire turned and turned and turned.
I want to snap so bad.
I am famous for saying all the things that people think in the silence of their "too good" minds -
I never behave because I am real and ugly is as real as beauty.
And to me, more beautiful somehow.
It is in the honesty I think.
Honesty is brutal, brutality of that form is most human - therefore most attractive.
No conforming to "shoulds"
I digress - lose all of you I am sure of it.
I am outwardly ranting the fluidity of the thoughts that swirl about the cyclone of my mind.
My poet is alive and well.
Ahhh how I love her.
She is so strong that I wonder why she doesn't fight for more air time.
She is sooooooo good at what she does and yet, she sits in the background like soft music in a chaotic house.
maybe it isn't a novel I should work on, maybe it is a piece like Toomer's CANE.
A little bit of this and a little bit of that.
I have been writing erotica lately - don't get all holier than thou on me now - the world is overpopulated for a reason.
My erotica is good stuff - classy and raw - like me..
hahaha, you doubters and haters shake your heads if you must - I am so used to it you have no real effect.
Ask my Mother.
It is sexy and smouldery and makes me realize that I am untapped natural resource.
A weapon of Mass DESTRUCTION.
And I am laughing for all of you who read and think "she needs to be institutionalized"
You nay sayers would like it the best - cause it would speak to your dusty dungeon or high pedestaled fortresses.
Take your pick - either way, I know you would like it.
It's not smut - it's beautiful sexuality.
It is my poet and my blogger come together in collaboration.
It is visceral and sensory - like me.
It is my fantasies I guess - the heroine is written for me.
She's a bad ass and playful - she's a poet and a dancer and golden and smart. She teases gently and playfully, she is wicked and uninhibited, she is soft and yet longs for someone strong enough to give her callouses.
She is a great girl that erotica me -
I thought about posting one or two short snippets - but what would you all do or think (after your cold shower)
can you all handle that????
If you can let me know and I'll put her up here - DEB DOES LIFE EROTICA.
I am thinking that this may be the way to make money that will afford me the opportunity to write novel after novel
Novels for the sicko's in secret and outed.
There is real money in it - ask Anne Rice.

Where have I gone?
Where are all the intended productive moments of this day, taken to re-group?
I have no ducks liked up, pretty orange bills in horizontal linear perfection -
everything is still a mess and my poet is giggly.
Ahhh me, why such complexities???
Why oh why was I made this way?
Surely there is a good reason.
Surely there is a good reason.
Oh wait, I said that....
Blogger and poet - on the same page.
Ah Deb you're a head case and you amuse me so when you open the latches and allow the contents to spill out everywhere, just because you can.
You go girl.
There is a cabin in a dark wood somewhere and it calls to me.
For the first time in a month I miss my cell phone.