To The Imagination, The Soul, And The Mind That Never Seems At Rest. Oh...wide Eyed Girl...so Pretty.

I need to keep my joy in mind when I write or alter. I've let my thoughts to fool me.

I've let my imagination to make me into a frightening devil. How clichéd. How depressing of me.

My scowl widens as I pick up the pen. I'm disoriented inside of myself and yearn to meet someone great. I feel renewed when they hear me speak.

What...if no one answers the call? Am I destined to roam the earth by myself? No.

I'll take my own call. I'll turn off my thoughts so I may continue to be content. Because happiness is now a decision. My decision.

—Angie💋

—What’s crazy is this human heart of ours. Clumped up veins pumping blood and yet...we follow it? Seriously. Unreal. What's insane is that I thought—no...I believed that maybe, just MAYBE some things would be different or change. And yet...? Almost the same.

For granted, feeling depleted, wanting to live off the grid. For the memories are all great, my mind in a state of confusion and my heart? Pieces. No puzzle to be built.

Lisa Rowe: Highs and lows increasingly severe. Controlling relationships with patients. No appreciable response to meds. No remisson observed. Lisa thinks she’s hot shit because she’s a sociopath.

Angelina Jolie photographed by Philip Wong, 1991

Somewhere, somehow, something... All the questions, hurt, overthinking, and pain— it'll all end. Because... Tomorrow's a new day. And that's what keeps me going.

You need to come in and conquer me. Take me down a notch from my overlapping thoughts. Knock me down with your kindness and wisdom. Just help me, and I will help you.

—;

So there's this whine and soft pitch of a dissociative type. The persistent incapabilities to secure, the nature of the soul, are everywhere.

Cosmic encounters between various realms. Destruction of what isn't and what will be inexplicably. The happy results of traveling blindly, without knowing anything, yet possessing something.

This poetry is rambling, disorganized, and vibrant.

Writing repeatedly to stir the soul. This is poetry, gloomy reflections, monotonous writing, and a lasting smile.

I feel proud of my damages. Odd? You betcha. How can one speak with a positive tone about one's own destruction? But it's possible. I'm proud of my climb, my metamorphosis, and my halting ways.

It feels like I'm tone-deaf to all the unsupportive hindrances that I've encountered in this amorphous transition. My mouth hangs open when I find myself speechless regarding the notions of speaking argumentatively. Have I...learned? Oh certainly. And what arguments have I had? The ones with myself.

Every active stimulus that finds it's way into my realm is causing my senses to awaken, bloom, and burst with activity. I love it. Lackluster. No enthusiasm. Why? As a way to become more aware of my damages and feel proud.

The weekend—

Angelina Jolie photographed by Victoria Brynner, 1990