Category: published

Dear Mama

Dear Mama,

I love you. All that I have ever wanted was to feel like you were proud of me.  I tried to be who you wanted.  I found that didn’t work. Then I tried being myself.  I found that I was happier,  but you still were not proud of me.  Mama I am fourty one,  and I have succeeded.  I am published.  I am usually a happy soul.  Yet when I fall,  and I do occasionally fall.  It is your voice in my ear,  telling me you expected it all along.  When I get rejected for my poetry, (as rejections are normal for the writer to recieve) that everyone else would tell me I wrote so well?  I hear you telling me that you didn’t want to hear it because of how depressing it was.

Mama,  I have published five volumes of poetry,  three children’s books,  and a novella.  You know that family have hardly even acted like it mattered?  I am doing what I told you I wanted to do at nine.  I am a writer. So I may never be a  novelist,  children’s books still need written. I have never asked for much.  Just a hey,  that is awesome.  Or even… Uh sharing it on social media that you have a daughter who is printed.  So I put space between us.  I admit that I was tired of feeling like you just didn’t care. I deserve to be someone who is cared about. I’m sorry that I was never the daughter you wanted,  but Mama,  I have always just been me.

Love always,

Your daughter.

What is writing?

So I am a published writer. I have just recently published my third children’s book.  I have published several volumes of poetry,  and a novella.  I write this blog and contribute regularly to another. After all of that,  sometimes I feel doubtful that I should claim that I am a writer. I do not have a novel,  and the current story that I am working on… Well I am likely doing a novella again. I am at five thousand words… And I realized that I am about half done. So should I stop calling myself a writer?  NO, because I am still writing.  I will likely have a new volume of poetry to release early in 2017. I will still finish the death of neverland.  I may never write a “Full” novel,  but I wonder if that really is that big of a deal.

So what is writing?  Writing is taking one’s heart and pulling it out through the fingertips.  Writing is creating a tender spot on your own soul,  and exposing it to the world. Writing is late nights,  sore fingers and crying yourself dry. Writing is the feeling of accomplishment of a job well done. Writing is all the tortures of Hell and all the pleasures of heaven. And in the end… Writing is an obsession stronger than any.

#amwriting #always

 

I survived 

It seems as though I am running still

Trying to fight such a long gone foe,

That sometimes today is a haze.

I survived.
Shouldn’t it make me stronger?

So why do I feel so weak?

I survived.
So when can I rest?

When will it finally be over for me?

It seems as though 

I am running still

From memories of so very long ago,

That it takes over me.

I survived.
What did I lose to be who I am?

Was it worth it?

I survived.
Can I ever escape those memories?

Should I try?

It seems as though 

I am running still

Just to escape things from before,

And I wonder if I ever will.

I survived.
Shattered and broken,

Afraid and uneasy.

I survived.
So how do I survive yet another day?

Frustration

Head in my hands,

I have lain.

Frustration rules my brain.

Doubts rearing,

Words written

With no readers opinions

To reach and sway.

 

Crippling doubt

Searing the mind,

Taking the muse

Leaving only frustration behind.

 

The pen a sword,

With a double edge so keen.

Severing the need,

Laying the heart so bare.

 

No voice 

Power stolen,Silence woven.

No voice left 

To the soul broken. 

Humanity removed, 

Difference exposed. 
Protesting the darkness 

For sake of grasping the light,

Only to find the soul

Just too weary to fight.
A voice stolen completely away 

Left by society silent today. 

For though I speak clearly, 

There is no one to hear me.

Untitled From Word Play 

Sleep sweet child, For day is done.

Rest your body

Before another 

Is begun. 
Calm your mind, 

And enjoy your dreams. 

Let all your worry

Cease and leave. 
All your troubles 

Be gone and done.

Close those eyes, 

My sweet little one.
When with the morrow, 

That sun does rise.

Raise your head,

And open your eyes. 
Explore a world 

So fresh, so new,

Explore the world.

It’s there for you.

Art

What is art,
Smart and sublime.
Each eye views differently,
Both beauty and the divine.

An artist places in their work,
Heart,  soul and mind.
Only to hear an offhand remark,
Of how they should really try to find
Something to do with their life.
Some people are but so blind.

The poet pouring themself
Into the words on the page,
Knowing all along that not all
Will see the truth.

The painter who sees a darker view,
Is no less showing
Yet one more truth
That oft goes unseen.

My truth and thine,
Not always so mesh,
So when speaking of art,
No matter the kind,
Be aware always
The ego is but a fragile
Easily broken piece
Of the artistic soul.

Words are painful

So you say
Words can’t hurt you,
Such bravado to be shown.
Strength in mind,  and heart,
Forgotten dreams,
Into the fury thrown.
For though the mind is strong,
The tongue is sharp.
Cutting the soul,
Slicing deep.

The pen is mighty,
No sword so sharp.
Each slice exquisite,
Laying vein
outside the skin.
Making me wish
The words mute
Again.

Untitled from Life drops

The broken heart
Drips the ink,
That from the
Poet’s pen will leak.

Verses torn from
Pain so barely borne,
Written with a soul
Determined to grow.

Reaching out in word
To staunch the flow
Of ink from the ever
Sharper pen.

I am writing!

              Vacation seems like it should be a bad time to write.  It’s work, right? Still for me, at home I find it harder to actually set the time aside for writing.  Too much else to do. So much household chores that never seem to be done.  Too many distractions,  social media and other entertainment options. I realize I should be more disciplined about my writing,  but if I structure too much,  my muse will abandon me. I have spent two hours today writing.  Cleaning up my projects helped.  I backed up a couple of projects that really aren’t working,  and cleared them from my writing app. I rewrote two pages that were lost in a save mishap.  I wrote more on a couple of my works in progress. I wrote another poem for Life Drops. I am also of course writing this blog post.  Still.  I am doing so much better on my vacation with my writing than I do normally.  I have no internet to distract.  No housework to distract.  I only have my kindle and my family.  I am hoping that I can publish the second book in the Bedtime tales series before summer ends. I am aiming to finish one of the other books (full novels)  before my 45th birthday. That gives me a little over three and a half years.  🙂