Little Girl



Feeling like a little girl

Comforted by her cries

Every minute the big hand clicks

A little more she dies.


Fumbling around in darkness

Not knowing what to do or say

Trying to fix what’s wrong

But only gets turned away.


Swallowed up by her fears

Feeling tired and alone

The blanket that covers her now

Barely warms the bone.


Her head is pounding intensely

The beat grows harder still

Wondering if an ease will transcend

She just wants something real



July 29 2007







Author's Notes/Comments: 

Struggling, hard choices and confusion.

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9inety's picture

I think


this is a very good example of where art is the only real life possible anymore. Yearning and desire, that comes out in artistic depth means that the dangerous and difficult translations of dramatic finale is the poetry of the soul. We live with bits and bytes now, in some cases facing spiteful hazardous moments of madness. There aren't any easy computations for life although this digital world may lead some to believe that it is the case.

Contained determination is not an obvious veil for the poet. We rescue dark memories from the past pain and shine our own lamplight on those events that now glow in our words. This is the radiance, the passion generated by poetry itself.


Keep writing






"One of the best results of life, is the torment of love"

Dylan Eliot

truthintragedies's picture

<3 hazardous moments in madness <3

I have more hazardous moments in madness than ever before...would it sound completely insane to call it divine misery? It seems my dark passenger writes more intensely then any other feeling besides love. Thanks for your opinion and encouragement! 

**if it's an eye for an eye, then we'll all go blind.**