(...) part 2

(Life)
.

(It is being robbed from me,)
(robbed)
(from my house as I sleep,)
(sleep,)

(thinking myself safe)
(in bed)
.

(Life is ticking away)
(as I wait)
(and sleep)
(and doze)
.

(I get up, out of bed)
.

(but nothing can mend)
(my empty heart)
.

(So empty)
.

(...)

(Amber is a nocturnal soul.)

(She talks about herself in third person and
writes things on her hands in the blackest of sharpies.)

(Amber is bored.)

(Amber has nothing better to do.)

(Goodnight, Amber.)

(Goodnight, hopes.)

(Goodnight, raving loneliness.)

(Goodnight, raving lowliness.)

As I Ponder my Solitude, the Eagle Dies.

It is quite sad.

I feel odd,
and solitary like
a dying,
once-proud eagle.

He once stood brave and proud, with wings
that scooped
up the heavens themselves.

A whole, spacious world,
with mountains and rivers
--a little bit chilly, but steadfastly beautiful--

existed under his feathers.

The eagle was always alone, however,
with the aforementioned universe seen from a birds-eye view.

He never came down to Earth.
I guess it was just fate, or cold feet
that willed him to remain apart.

It is quite sad.

Because the eagle is finally
dy-
ing,
after all these lone years,
dying all alone
(as custom for
this troubled one),

on the steepest of precipices
high above the world
of normalcy, one
of envious quality.

I look away; my smile falters; I am Smitten

I see a water-colored image.
But all of the watery colors are black
and gray.

I am not fully sure if this image is real,
dreamt,
or perhaps even photoshopped.

Still, the watery, wintry, translucent image
is beautiful,

if not a little dark.

Dingy lights shine
amidst the din.

Someone is standing there, but the colors
are too slurred to see the face.

All is shadowy in this odd watercolor.

It is a feminine figure.

And runny, thorned roses adorn its head.

The water-color is like a stain
on my brain.

I look away from it,
my hopeless dream.

My smile falters.

I am Smitten.

To any Victim of the Haitian Earthquake, any Family Member Thereof, or Anyone Relatedly Afflicted:

From a spoiled little white girl
in the heart of America
--the fatted, noisy cow forever kept from the slaughter--
comes this poem, to the poorest,
most unfortunate of people,

far closer to God than I will ever be.

My words are construed on the finest of devices
(as compared to the sodden, creaking cot that the dying,
sickly, wounded, or otherwise afflicted
lay their throbbing heads,

crying eyes,
ringing ears;
and nostrils flared
with the reek of death)

and my feet are kept warm with patterned,
purple slippers
(ridiculously decorated, as compared to the bare,
twisted, or otherwise crushed digits of the wound-
ed)
.

I spread this poem to the corners of the world,
and cast it out into the sea with the single stroke
of a key;

I make my voice heard and fear no reproach;
I sleep safe and warm within a prospering household.

I have a future, a school, the opportunity
for a job,
--and moreover, I have
so-called "dignity"--
--(and more interestingly, I have
so-called "equality")--

and society loves a spoiled,
white
American

girl.

I, however,
am far less cherished
in the eyes of my Savior.

Blessed be the ones who have died in this quake.
Do not let the light die, for He will
not forsake.

This is my world, as seen through a foggy window, when it's raining outside:

I am, for the most part,
not a part of this world,
nor am I a part of any other.

I belong, simply, to nothingness, not
to any one institution
or any one person.

No one knows just how deafening the silence can be
as it screeches and caterwauls,
gaining in slowly in decibles
every second of the day; as if

worsened on
particular intervals.

Yes, yes, it seems that

I am not dead,
yet I am not living.

That I am not asleep,
yet not fully awake.

That I am not in pain,
yet do not feel well.

That I am not frowning,
yet I am not smiling.

Yes, yes, it seems

that I am imprisoned
in a grayscale city bereft of its luster.

This is how "it" began.

Everything I do is like a disease.

One simple action manifests
itself
in the back of my mind.

The feelings of wholeness
and hapiness caused
by that one simple action

make me feel so good
and complete.

I can't get that action out of my head
or the way that it made me feel.

Still ignorant of its evils I
stoop to its wallows,
bend down to reach the bottom
of its pit.

I didn't know,
honest,
what I was doing,

but I had a feeling that it wasn't well.

Even still,
I didn't
know.

It became
commonplace,
my habit
and adiction;

But it began with just one
simple,
innocent,
ignorant action.