The ants are back, gnawing at my brain until i cry in submission. I wish I can stop the flood of thoughts in my head... the decisions I don't have to make, but need to make. I wish I can think of rainbows and flowers, so that I can stop annoying the heavens with my screams of anguish over the demons - demons of my own creation - that visit me in my sleep. And although I long to join the angels as they sing hymns to the king of kings, I wonder if I am cursed to spend the rest of my days, and all of eternity, wallowing in my personal hell.

If I told you I was a wanderer,
will your hand stay in mine;
Or will you bind your heart to another?
If I told you I was a dreamer,
cursed to spend the rest of my life
above the clouds, dwelling on my illusions,
bordering on my self-made delusions;
will you go away?
If I told you I would rather be a poet;
my heart at the tip of my pen.
my scribbles speaking of my soul;
the entire world on my weary shoulders;
will you leave me for the prince,
his heart hidden behind his mounds of gold?
I am but the scribe.
And your beauty deserves that of kings.
And each day I spend with you
makes me feel even more unworthy.
Even more inadequate.