Words and letters

In that idyllic, isolated
childhood hill home
I had only words as
friends,lovers
angels and demons

I wrote letters
to myself
to my parents
(who lived there with me)
to imaginary friends

some of whom
became real
in the years to come

Now there are
no friends
the addict words
still want to become
letters

I now make word-walls
brick by brick
between me and the world

it gets darker and darker
inside here

calendars change
dictionaries updated
books released

I am Plath's suicide
Woolf's frustration
Kerouac's disillusionment

my words
strangulate me
cause of death
unknown.