sitting on a couch that doesn't belong to her in a room she barely knows [but it's quiet here, I can write, she thinks] just wishing, still hoping for a phone to ring, for things to go, just once, as she planned them to go. Sleeplessness catching up to her again, she slept for hours this afternoon and now she's so awake, doesn't know what to do but write. And words flow from her like blood from a fresh cut wound but the words don't nearly satisfy. They're never quite enough. Calls herself a poet even though she knows that she's not special. Deep down, everyone's a poet, so what makes her any different. What's so different? So what if she can put words on paper, they're just words. "giving hope change tide blue potato clock picture gray sparkle sun moon stars sky" Just words. What makes mine worthy of being called great? Anyone can write words, sitting alone in a room that's not theirs at midnight when the thoughts come and go in your lonely head. Lonely not because you're alone from other people, but because you're alone inside...you still don't know who you are. -Jada Marie Andrews 9-23-00
Reason for writing:
alone at night with my thoughts...no other reason than that...
Birth sign: Capricorn
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