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I have told my secrets through loves ink - painted them to my skin with watercolor defiance. & writers, we sometimes write about our scars in riddles, layers upon layers of thought, - care for them like flowers growing on the warlands of our bodies. Worthy, we give them faces, we give them names, we give them gravestones. We kill them off in our stories, make them villains, make them heroes. I have wrists that roar, & I will be damned if I don’t let them tell their stories.
Rain arrived in misty waves across the countryside and soothed away some of the strain born from uncertain times mixed with daily stresses Like medicine from the skies so those below might relax a bit more and breathe a little easier It was a day to curl up beneath blankets listen to music or read books while drops went
Little Lost Stray
Little Lost Stray at the front door I thought life had become much too complicated long before you arrived to mewl for assistance Little Lost Stray as you follow me around the yard please understand I have a father who fights against cancer a mother who grapples with anxiety a brother who struggles to find his passion in life and as for myself…. I am a daughter and a sister who suffers from worries …so many worries Little Lost Stray at the back door I wish I understood why you chose our home at which to
A Stray Poem
A Stray Poem was on my front porch one clear Spring morning as I stepped outside to glimpse the sunrise It was a small timid text half-hidden under a wooden stool beside some potted ferns which flinched away as I took a step closer Someone must have abandoned the poor thing-- a passerby (perhaps) to the countryside thoughtless and cruel enough to throw what they refused to care for away on the fierce winds I went back inside and returned accompanied by a poetry anthology from which I read aloud one piece after another with great care until . . . little by little . . . the Stray Poem emerged