anya anya  a real person in an unreal world    a romanticist, blissfully wondering from one orb to another yet cloaked    within her skin there is a barren space It spirals and spins -    It exhausts and aches Enclosed in her core there is a desolate chamber -  ardent for lightning ardent for who? Flesh and sinew -    velvet and rock this hulk is plagued it yields and mourns -    her body cries to him in their sequested skin she makes herself    opaque to grant him in

i don't know how to do anything. i am trying to move mountains with words. but i am an ant. i scribble. i drool. i move like a worm, whose world (words) encompassed a mile. how do i rise above? where will this worm find wings? i look in the mirror and i see filth. who is that? where did the angel go? why is there dirt staring back at me? why is the soil of incompetence beneath my nails? why does doubt pain blue rings beneath my eyes and  stain my skin? why does my spine assume failure? why do my lips flirt with the sky; why do I try to lasso beauty with such a pitiful rope? where is the hair of Rapunzal or Samson? where is my sling; where is my stone; my gun? where is the weapon with which I may fight this apathy, that feels like sleep in my limbs; that loosens my brother's smile, that kills my neigbours daughter. this pen is scrawny and hardly seems able to ink out or erase this plague that infest my Generation, this giant, this ogre, this Beast, this death that assumes a million faces, that borrows my own.