what can i say? i'm an eccentric woman.
got more soul
than a sock
with a hole.
Lure her on a wounded leash
To a dark space in the mind
Take control her peace; feed her a spoonful of lies
Suck the life out of her eyes with an evil ablaze
Take away her last breath, her last tear; make her crave
Dig the hole that is her grave
And write a letter for my lover
“She’ll be back after never
And you’ve blown your stupid cover”
Make her suffer to the ceiling
Make her slam down to the floor
Make her feel no feeling
Make her living no more
Hide her body under the surface
Under the grime where it stays for a reason
If only he were cheating
Then her demise would be needed...
My book’s overdue…4 days. I should’ve returned it without ado but fuck that. It’s not that important, right? I owe what, like 45 cents? That’s my entire piggy bank gone. Damn. All those pennies…
“She ain’t got no money in the bank…”
They won’t track me down though. It’s not like I have overdue taxes for the government to enjoy waiting on, shit.
So it’s 6:30 am, and I’m one pissed cookie.
Since yesterday, I sketched out a plan in my mind to run in the morning, 6 am sharp knives. 6 am rolled out of bed with me, and I was getting ready – black tee and tights, messy hair, stank breath and I was red’ to go. I opened the brown door and stepped into my world of focus. I was a dazzling day – light blue skies with stratus clouds, lively trees with tiny birds chirping away, the weightless wind singing a jazz tune. I was walking to run. I took my first running steps, and I could feel a twinge in my knee. My knee felt out of place. When I looked down, I saw why – I forgot my knee brace. While saying a compound of cuss words to myself, I went up the stairs slowly, and got that stupid thing. I went back into my now awry world, and attempted to bring my sketch to life - So much for that. My knee still hurt with every little step I took. Sucks, right? I know. I hung my head low and went inside. Still cussing, I was still glad. I woke up early for once. In my book, that’s a huge accomplishment.
I long for her. I lust for her brown sugar voice to escape her full lips, one crystal at a time, once again. I miss her.
When nightfall struck us deeply one day, she was in my arms. She was motionless, sleeping peacefully. I was smiling at her closed eyes, stroking her dark hair back. I slept with her. The next day, when sunset made its grand entrance, I awoke with happiness. I rolled over to my left in the white heavenly sheets to share it. She was gone. She was gone. Empty closets and drawers swallowed my now vulnerable mind. I didn’t remember the last time I blinked. I called for her name, no response. I checked the bathroom, the main room, the hallway, everywhere. She was unseen, lost and not to be found. She didn’t leave a note. She didn’t leave a number. She didn’t leave a sign. She left me. I sat down on those white heavenly sheets, and held my head lower than a bottomless pit. She left me.
Everyday, I look optimistically outside those lucid windows of mine. I view the blossoming flowers, their petals floating through the air; the trees slow dance with the wind; the seemingly static soft clouds; and the people, a motley of colours, shapes and sizes. But I never see her. I never see her. I play her favourite song on the piano, a nocturne it is. I play it for her everyday louder than a thunder strike. But she never hears it.
I’ll forever play the song, waiting for her to come back to me.
The human race lives unconsciously under his roaring red eyes, burning for a chance to escape his watch. They live a thousand deaths under his turmoil of tyranny and between the four corners of the planet. Fear has taken the place of their souls. They do not think. They do not wonder. They do not see. They do not speak. They are masked machines of silence. They do not question, ever. Questions lead to false answers, which lead to the pathway of torture and demise. They report to the command center for the daily inspection of their thoughts. Thoughts are only thoughts if they are of his wisdom. The consequence of ill thoughts is one’s end. The populace does not dare resist his army of men for fear of the black bag. They do not dare resist his word. His word is always right.
My name is X-42. I am a mole. His word has made me seek places of escape for I am against it. I have to change locations recurrently to conceal myself. I trust nothing or no one. I disguise myself differently day by day. By nightfall, I am on a mission. It is a mission to change the eyes and minds of my people; a mission to end the downstream of life. I plan to destroy the command centre by 2300 hours tonight. I want to send a message of challenge to him, and a message of change to them, the people.
1:02 am.
Tick tock the clock goes. Every stroke of the hasty hand of seconds strikes my ears stridently to my demise. It’s like I’m brainsick. The sound clutters my mind like a cloudy thought; a romantic dream; a crooked nightmare.
Typing away, I am, pressing these dark and dirty keys one at a time, relentlessly, like my life depended on it. Yet, it’s all meaningless. Empty words and faceless phrases attack the computer screen with pleasure. I’m trying to think of an idea to embellish with captivating language sprinkled with a touch of the abstract. 
Something to write – a poem, a prose…anything. Thinking, thinking, thinking. I listen closely to the swirls of air dancing, the silence wandering the room like a stranger; It's soothing...but no ideas, nothing. Fuck. My eyes are starting to mound with sleeping bags. I can feel my eyelids trying to hold on to each other for more than just a swift second. Widening my eyes isn’t helping much. It’s just making me look crazier than I do. Remember kids, images are crazier than they appear. Sounds crawling through the speakers are the only thing keeping me awake...but not for long.
THINK JEAN, THINK! THINK! I’m pounding my head for an idea to surface. I’m scratching my neck for inspiration to slither out of my veins. My eyes are drifting away from the screen to spot an idea on the shadow-ridden walls of this apartment; stacks of papers, black pens, flowery curtains, burnt out batteries…nothing. This is more bullshit than FOX news. My imagination is lifeless, like the broken printer in front of me. Stupid printer - couldn’t print a resume when I fucking needed it.
