No birds sing here
Do you see it now?
It is everywhere
Whispering on the winds
Notes for self:
You don't belong here; you never have
Death is the end and it will be so peaceful
But
I should never have been born.
I will never forgive you for that.
Anne W. Brigman (1869–1950) - The Strength of Loneliness, 1914
Something is rotten inside
Insidious and instinctive
It spreads itself all over my body
The sea is calling out
Swallow me, sea
I'd walk into the sea and never come back
The chains that bind us are rotten and crying out in pain