I’m mad at myself for feeling this feel that I feel
And mad that these feelings translate into
Something other than real
It’s really not a big deal, I tell myself
While watching my haphazard decent
Into madness wipe away any joy or gladness
And then, I envy tunes that embolden
And fit my moods, wishing I could
Express my insanity with a definitive gravity
I listen enchantingly to the raspy singing of
Fiona Apple’s lyrical pattering and teeter
Between hating her understanding
(of me) and hating my enchantment
At waste – and stretching out
My fall from grace.
Sophira has had a torrid, painful and passionate love affair with writing since she was old enough to pick up a book. They just can’t seem to break up. She’s from Brooklyn, New York and she though she plans on leaving one day and never returning, it will always be home. She loves discussing good books and the perils of being a writer – her email address is firstname.lastname@example.org if you’d like to reach out.