I clean my face at night

my mother calls it taking off the day.

I can clean my face, but I have seen too much that cannot be washed away

I wonder what it is all for, the fear, the smell of dread, the infighting and

I wonder if things will be different in the morning.

I have seen too many mornings and I am still young

I weary of lives wasted of time wasted, of cutting off and fading away

I love nights the stillness.

I do not have to deal with trivialities and human nature. A single candle burns

and flickers.


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About Me

poet, diarist, writer, teacher, woman, fragile, strong, northern life is my domicile, my barbaric yawp exudes against the tide


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