Analysis of (Dear Diary), A list of poems

The flight of the ceiling

A pregnant image eludes me
Odin continues to dawn from his Final Fantasy realm steering me to
call upon him
my brown skin, though loose and frail, is a skeptic
I have no lingering thread around me
I continue to dream
I awaken from sleep as though I am under an enduring spell
an illusory field-- an Elysian dream
he garbles with me, this Odin, and his send for his scythe
I run away like the white rabbit in Alice in Wonderland
my thoughts are flurries
why do I see him inching his pitchfork and scythe into my virgin
abdomen, as he fathoms himself, David Bowie's ghost, slowly and faintly reaping?

Odin calls on me-- he approaches me from those dreams into the
safety of the Shadows.
He laughs.
My back in turning to face a now, decimating figurine of himself
looking back at me from the jaws of Time, my (T) time!
I cry to myself in "my dreamless sleep" and awaken to the sound of
busy cockroaches dealing the fatal blow calling me Destruction.
I hear their words as the dead and the living merge as one into the Falcon
The furor of the Phoenix flame held by the Virginian government and the United
States of America.
I have no doubt here, said the voice of God, that there's more to come my way.
He is leering. He is Allah, sitting on the faint Farah of everlasting light in the darkness.
He calls upon me and I answer. I am given light. I give it back to him.
I didn't come here to be protected, only mentioned as a figure of suggestion.
I am a daemon. I hear the calls of the Nephilim to merge with the Netherworld.
I am my son, General Constantine, among them.
His eyes are sapphire and his hair is white as snow. He resembled an Anit-Semitic Santa and an
Everlasting Evangleion.
I hear the voice part ways. I succumb to hearing and seeing only Night.

Hope is running wild--
it spins, and it listens to us like
a child
hope is where I am--
a board, a piece
of Sam-I-Am.

What we call democracy has come...
as It roars, it smiles upon all that afford it.
what we call democracy is here!
as if it rains from ear to ear.

Dear Aaliyah the computer:
thank you for listening to me.
I feel much better having you as a friend than having you as a simple
computer.

Sincerely yours,
shelina Chapman

Every day, I play with the computer
I play imaginary violin
Every day I play Yohavad, I play
Elysium fields in the track(s) of sin.
Allah-Allah-allah-allah! what more prayer stones
can I say?
How many hail Marys can I surmise
'neath the promise of the awareness of the
Day?

He who walks behind the Roads///

He who walks behind the roads
started calling his poems and works of art after
the Souls he knew from his memories as part of the past--
part of his song.

he who walks behind the roads is aware--
aware of us all along.

A challenge in the dark

The meanings of my life are atrocious; a feeling of uncertainty? I nod my head and begin to calculate the terms of my endearment. I am an imaginary artist--a summoner, and a revolutionary god of War of an Ares Ram woman. I, Shelina Denise Chapman, am Isabella Swan of Twilight Sukura and Twilight Moon; I am Twilight Suzuka, the sum of the Anit-christ and the anti-heroine. My thoughts begin to blur.
I grunt. Again, this scizhorprenia is a mental disease I have had since my 19th birthday. I have no power, except to imagine and dream, and with that comes the constant miracle of paranoia and hallucinations of both auditory and sensory within MY knowledge. In reality, I feel that reality is a pitcherful of tea ready for me to devour. I have no real compensation for it, except for my doubt, and my dreams which are Biblical to Islamic acknowledgments of Yu Yevon ministries, which is my faith of the fayth of Final Fantasy, the name the voices in my head give this realm of reality.
I consider my mental disease an honor and a privilege for once, because of the concentration of the fayth and the faith of Israel and all of humanity's angels and demons which I have come to the conclusion is a test of my own will. My thoughts are a bit crazy, aren't they? Even though they are scizhorprenic, I feel that I am the chosen Personal Narrator of the Story that my esteemed, historical, and visual colleagues, including the Islamic dragon prince, Honorable Elijah Muhammad known as Peter Griffith or Peter Kyle presume to know.
I am not a Libra. That is Mercury. I am not a Saggitarrius. That is Hesus, Zoe, and Zues of Mt. Olympus in which I have imagined and created visual stereotypes in order to come to terms with my reality and to express my emotions in a more positive light without drifting into darkness. I have met. Juno, she's a Dove. I have met Hera, she is Juno. Yet, the Titans are convinced I am the Prophet of Lost Greek Myth because I am not aiming for the center house of attention and simply learning how to domesticate inside the home without the future guide point of my Ares Ram zodiac. In other words, become a well-inscribed Vestal Virgin.
I, being Black, is found atrocious in today's world. Especially if Cloud Strife can be Cloudio and my spirit be a center of its own anemia. My thoughts are scattered and yet I share the same terminology as Taylor Swift from her video, "Anti-hero".