Damn, some nights are a greeting from hell...
Some days follow suite, guess I'm no angel and heaven, it
seems, is not for me.
Too boring there anyways, all clouds and white lights, goofy
people flying around, who needs that?
My bad days are not a warm welcome to anyone, my bad days
are bad, I will not pretend they're not.
I'm feisty I'm nasty and I don't play nice!
Many men have called me a "tough woman" before; I suppose
many more will too.
I come from a tough country, man, and I come from a tough
reality, tough could be my middle name if I lacked one, I
have one, it's a secret.

I still try, to get over myself, to get over people in my
past, every day is a fight for a cleaner sleight.
Another push towards normalcy, do others fight as much as
I?

You know, never thought I'd turn out a
melancholy-happy-go-lucky girl in her mid-twenties, I think
I was 18 last week, I think I forgot time fly's I think its
hard to be alive.

Tonight is a hard one, one of those when a person is afraid
to sleep; afraid of dreams he may have,
On the other hand, maybe it's afraid to wake up from those
dreams? I haven't figured that one out yet.
I should pour a glass of red, have a few smokes, which
always help...
The words not the sleep.
I am reading a biography about Mordecai Richler, fascinating
man, a man of few words as many have described, who knew
him.
I want to be a "man of few words" to absorb my company, my
environment, to be a man of page and pen in hand, imagine!
That would be something worth my sleep, better yet, my
waking up!

I have a special record, its called "writing songs" it plays
all my favorite soft-sad ones, puts me in a mood to write,
you may notice my writings are all moody and gray... as of
lately.

I have been writing for years, writing for no one, just to
get things out of the build-up in side.
My in side is still all built-up, though I have millions of
poems as proof of it.

I am banging on the doors of light here, time is meaningless
when there is a window facing east and coffee seems to be
the only thing on ones mind, its morning, most of my coming
day is idle.
Dinner with Lisa and a few drinks with Connie at PJ's,
another stupid hippy benefit.... who cares?
Choking on patchouli and weed the whole night, oh well is
there anything better in "steel town" on a Saturday night?
Not really.
It gives me nothing, really, nothings to write about, no
real joy, it gives me a few bloody marries and a few losses
at the pool tables, it gives me a reason to dress and
fancy-up... which I need these days.
I am lonely, I don't think about it, try not too anymore.
I am older, mid twenties; playtime is almost all over.
I write for myself, still.