Head's splitting into pieces as I weave the right words together. Is this how it feels whenever one dives deep within the innermost confines of one's soul?

I'm deep.
Pitch black.
Where are my hands?
I'm lost.
Im scared.
I'm drowning.
ASPHYXIATED.

But I'm not there yet.
Need... to go .. deeper,
I told myself.

And you know what marmamook, every time I feel like turning back, I always see her. The girl I've been telling you about - the beautiful marmaid. Then the same mysterious rush of oxygen through my tired lungs.

I'm a sea lion.
Renewed energy,
I'll keep diving.

I wish I was Superman -
there's a wall in need of X-Ray.
The wall of words I've been stubbornly staring
uncreatively
Feeling's not lovely.

Wrapped in dreams,
twisting out stories
like thread between fingers.
Her word's been looping like
Derulo's Watcha Say
Like coals burning

keeping engines running but
why isn't the train moving?

He looked out the window
Saw himself,
both hands pushing against the train.
It hurts.
And the feeling's not lovely.
He's no Superman.
Can't see through walls.
No superhuman strength.
But he is a mule.
Never will the train move.
Not when train tracks are still being laid.

I'm glad the graffiti is on a wall -
not on paper.
Had they been on paper,
I wish I was Jordan.

Stubborn. Creative. Love.
Dugaldo once wrote, "Dreamers... Our gift is our curse."
Curse,
How could it be a curse?
Outrageous!
But what he wrote seem true
As to the why, I've got no clue
Or maybe I do.

Introverts are thinkers, dreamers,
story writers.
We want things to go our way,
and no other way.
We're stubborn yet open -
we still do listen.
But in the end,
our heart is our friend,
we'll do as they say for as long as we can.

Take for instance writing,
The only writing I did was blogging,
Only a few years of blogging and suddenly I feel as though I'm good at what I'm doing
Why do I bother writing?
When I know a thousand Lit Majors out there are trying
While I'm studying Engineering

Take for instance endings,
The ones that I hated
Like Water for Chocolate,
and 500
Days of Summer - She's an idiot.

So let's take love for instance shall we,
I'm as stubborn as I can be
They said to say hi, make eyes,
smile.
But can't they see?
It's not as easy
as ABC
or 123

I can do that with most people,
just not her,
or her,
or her.

And just so you know, I do ask myself why
But I've yet to receive a reply.

So when Dugaldo wrote, Dreamers...
Our gift is our curse,
I might have just quenched my thirst,
My thirst for an answer.
And the answer cannot be any clearer:

I'm an Introvert
I'm my own group of thinkers, dreamers,
story writers.
I want things to go my way,
and no other way.
And if things go my way (and I know the journey will not be a smooth one),
I could do a Sinatra and sing:

I've lived a life that's full -
I've travelled each and every highway.
And more, much more than this,
I did it my way.

Regrets? I've had a few,
But then again, too few to mention.
I did what I had to do
And saw it through without exemption.

I planned each charted course -
Each careful step along the byway,
And more, much more than this,
I did it my way.

Elizabeth Gilbert, the author of the book Eat, Pray, Love couldn't have put it nicely in her speech above:

Don't be afraid. Don't be daunted. Just do your job. Continue to show up for your piece of it whatever that might be. If your job is to dance. Do your dance. If the divine cock-eyed genius assigned to your case decides to let some sort of wonderment be glimpse for just one moment through your efforts, then Ole. And if not, do your dance anyhow. And Ole to you nonetheless. I believe this and I feel that we must teach it. Ole to you nonetheless just for having the sheer human love and stubbornness to keep showing up.

Ole to me, I guess, for having the sheer human love and stubbornness to keep showing up. Ole to Dugaldo for that single poetic line that managed to inspire a lengthy piece of nothing. I guess one has got to start from nothing before he gets something. And Ole to a friendly stranger friend, for her "I would say that lit students have been exposed to a lot of writing, so there are those among us who wants to create something of our own. That does not mean you would not be just as good. My mantra with writing is 'Just Write'..."

Ole!

Mother Love by Rita Dove.

Calling upon the ancient Greek myth of Demeter and Persephone, Mother Love examines the love between mother and daughter, two tumblers locked in an eternal somersault: each mother a daughter, each daughter a potential mother.

Note: Why can I not find her poem "Mother Love" online?

In those years, people will say, we lost track
of the meaning of we, of you
we found ourselves
reduced to I
and the whole thing became
silly, ironic, terrible:
we were trying to live a personal life
and, yes, that was the only life
we could bear witness to

But the great dark birds of history screamed and plunged
into our personal weather
They were headed somewhere else but their beaks and pinions drove
along the shore, through rages of fog
where we stood, saying I

... Adrienne Rich

Notes: At first read, it sounded somewhat like a failed relationship. As time go by, all one could think of is his or herself, never the other. And then the "great dark birds of history" lost me.

There's a feminist interpretation of it too - and it can be found here.

My three sisters are sitting
on rocks of black obsidian.
For the first time, in this light, I can see who they are.

My first sister is sewing her costume for the procession.
She is going as the Transparent lady
and all her nerves will be visible.

My second sister is also sewing,
at the seam over her heart which has never healed entirely,
At last, she hopes, this tightness in her chest will ease.

My third sister is gazing
at a dark-red crust spreading westward far out on the sea.
Her stockings are torn but she is beautiful.

... Adrienne Rich

Notes: A glimpse of what makes women women? I'm beginning to fall in love with her third sister.

Her scarf a la Bardot,
In suede flats for the walk,
She came with me one evening
For air and friendly talk.
We crossed the quiet river,
Took the embankment walk.

Traffic holding its breath,
Sky a tense diaphragm:
Dusk hung like a backcloth
That shook where a swan swam,
Tremulous as a hawk
Hanging deadly, calm.

A vacuum of need
Collapsed each hunting heart
But tremulously we held
As hawk and prey apart,
Preserved classic decorum,
Deployed our talk with art.

Our Juvenilia
Had taught us both to wait,
Not to publish feeling
And regret it all too late -
Mushroom loves already
Had puffed and burst in hate.

So, chary and excited,
As a thrush linked on a hawk,
We thrilled to the March twilight
With nervous childish talk:
Still waters running deep
Along the embankment walk.

... Seamus Heaney

Notes: I could definitely see myself writing a poem parallel to this one.