Sitting in a deserted corner of a small village in the cervices of my mind.

 Lint balls, moth balls, powdery smells of old ladies perfume. 

This is a new place, a sad place, a place I didn’t know existed and I have been a lot of places. 

On the brink of suicide, extreme happiness, jumping up and down excitement but this place is different. It’s dark, it’s haunted by memories from the past and glimpses into the future. 

I don’t like this place. It wrings my soul, churns my stomach, and makes awful rotten egg tastes run though my esophagus bursting into my mouth and rolling off my lips, sickening smells.

But this place has become home, 

maybe not forever, but at least for a little while, 

so I stand here glancing around,

wondering how to maneuver in this new land.  

Shall I be myself or be who they want me to be 

but who are they,

do they really exist, 

or maybe they is my imagination and I am on an island of my own held hostage by consciousness, 

never reaching my full potential but this is all just a thought. 

Poetry by Ingrid Jennings

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