I told a passing cat, that I was to express my anxiety in forms of affection.


I wish to give solstice to the girls that can find no rest in the world. The girls left out in the shadows, waiting, for the call, secretly knowing it will never come.

Moreover, they will die, yearning for something that was never really theirs in the first place. The sense of pride and intellect vanished; replaced by comparisons they strangle themselves with fears of being left alone. I will just be jealous– because I am not them. I am not the kind that will get the call, they do not have to yearn.


While I struggle in the darkness counting my lack in comparisons, I find myself calling out to my death march; dying chasing an illusion. Others find comfort in forgetting the men they claimed; as they forget get the woman men stole. I bow my head, and prey for the sisterhood I was promised sometime back when my eyes were young and hopeful. That sisterhood I wish for will never come. I stand alone, waiting in the dark. Taking “pride” in the fact that my time will never come, I will never get that call.


This so-called sisterhood,

fell from grace

Shallow are the names, you give yourselves

Glory be to the anger, that’s far from hate

As you bless your days, some remain dead

Please forgive me

As I trespass on worth,

Defined by internalities

That cannot be replaced.

I get sick with the strange feeling

That with all this secret dealings,

Hiding in baseless facts and feelings,

Onto men that cry to faceless demons when they get their angels squealing,

As if, they found semi-automatics in the celling.



I shower myself in envy of those women, they make look so easy, I hide my head in glory, I know I’ll be telling myself this sick chant sometime this week:

I must be worth it; I see that there is not much,

I must not get it

I young when I was told that beauty was not all as such it seem to be.


I regarded giving solstice in light of my written defeat.

Alas, now that my beautiful ideas are in shambles I guess I have said it before, but it has woven this mess tight– perfectly in my sense of release.

I am headed back over to the other side now remaining in the darkness, that beautiful women world is not for me. If I get the call now, I will never be able to answer. I think myself to be my true form is it to be hopeful one minuet, and resent the exact idea in the next.

If I were to give you my secret, hexed in such an away, it would be beautiful.