Shrinking in a corner,
pressed into the wall;
do they know I'm present,
am I here at all?

Shrinking in a corner,
pressed into the wall;
do they know I'm present,
am I here at all?

Is there a written rule book,
that tells you how to be—
all the right things to talk about—
that everyone has but me?

Slowly I am withering—
a flowered deprived of sun;
longing to belong to—
somewhere or someone.

Jo is not a wallflower. He has a presence.

There is safety in numbness–
there is solace
in sleep.

I don't think all writers are sad, she said.
I think it's the other way around—
all sad people write.

Do you know what it is like,
to lie in bed awake;
with thoughts to haunt
you every night,
of all your past mistakes.

Knowing sleep will set it right -
if you were not to wake.