book
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Whisper white and empty,A blank page,A still pen; Aching pain and plenty,A string of words,A lion’s den. Write well and perhaps,A good read,A time when; Fall back and relapse,An empty basket,A barren hen. From my book: A Dark Quill
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The sinking feeling of depression creeps up on me again. It feels like a lead weight I’ve suddenly found myself encumbered with. Like an anchor, I toss it overboard. It swiftly sinks through the depths of the cold darkness and I along with it, yet I remain in the vessel from which it was dropped.
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Wind chimes danced and sang in the warm breeze as heartstrings broke. The sunlight slipped into the shadowed corners exposing the ghosts. They ran into the shade of the trees whose leaves whispered ancient secrets. The inviting body of water just off the back deck soothed all the pains of the day as it faded away,
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We die as we are born,Alone—Thrust into the unknownAnd a light that isBlinding. In this world onceKnown—Prisons of flesh and bone,Full of memories that keepLingering. From my book: Hushing the Voices
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Purple and pink flowersAdorned my dressIn a garment that wasn’t for day. I had awoken to silenceAnd endless heartacheIn a house that wasn’t my home. Each task I performed automatically,Like a program with a mortal soul. I had died, yet I remained,Like a ghost covered in flesh. From my book: Hushing the Voices
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The red berries on the bush in the backyard were the only color that bleak morning in November. My eyes sat fixated on their crimson coats, for everything else seemed as dead as I felt. I sipped my coffee, eyes transfixed, mind blank, body breathing yet dead inside. My skin appeared as grey as the sky
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I wished it hereAnd I watch it fly,From the northern cornerOf the eastern sky. The weary travelerI had come to be,Many lonely milesNow far behind me. I had touched the sky,A glistening golden hue;My soul was remindedOf all it once knew. Yet in time it fadedAnd it flew once more,From the southern cornerOf the western
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Eternal ache In a forgotten soul,Eternity pennedOn a fragile scroll;The scalesHave much to weigh. Perpetual existenceIn a forgotten way,Fate fallenOn a stony brae;Emptiness increasesThe weight of us. From my book: A Dark Quill
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Happiness had never really existed. Situations and circumstances masqueraded as such, but genuine happiness had escaped me. If I had one excuse why it had, I had a thousand, but none of that seemed to matter anymore. Excuses were no longer acceptable. The time had come to face the facts and remove the mask. Happiness
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There are those of us, touched with fire; a fire that rageswithin, threatening to destroy the very mind in which itresides. It leaves behind a chaotic state of a whirling madnesswhich I have become the master of manipulating. There are scars that will never fade, and memories thatwill never free me. Then there is me,
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I heard what sounded like screaming early in the morning, not long after dawn. It sounded as if something was dying, slowly, painfully. It screeched out one last cry before silence fell. Death echoed in that silence. I looked out the window. I’m not sure what I expected to see. There was a gray hue to the
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The smell of death l lingered like a salesman that wouldn’t take no for an answer. The is something about the rotting of flesh that reminds on how mortal a being with a heartbeat is. The rain poured off and on between bursts of sunlight. It was late afternoon, but I was still in my
SB LACROIX 