s. b. lacroix
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Your mind is a powerful thing. It creates your reality. One person, on their own, usually affects only their reality, as they are but one mind. Large amounts of people with the same intent, however; can affect reality on a mass scale. And they do. Everyday. Your thoughts can manifest things, both those you want,
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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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There was always something: some event, some comment, some form of self-doubt, that left me with conflicted feelings about my writing. Sometimes it was the pressure to publish from someone who had read my work. Sometimes it was my inability to believe anything I wrote was any good. Sometimes it was the comments I received
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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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Not long after midnight, I went outdoors. The night sky was filled with stars, the wind was brisk, and the wind chimes sang in the night air. I felt more peace in those moments than I had all day. There was nothing in the darkness that frightened me. There was nothing under that black, glittering
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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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I’m surrounded by the dead, Their memories in my head, Their photographs by my bed,I ponder what lies ahead. Their thoughts through me seep,Their pains ache and weep,Their agonies cut quite deep,My words through them seep. My writings are their choice,The whispers are their voice,In remembrance they rejoice,Their memories are my choice. I must pen
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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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Writing close to the bone is easy – sharing it is another story. There is something about allowing other people to read your innermost thoughts. I liken it to being naked in the town square. People are staring, some pointing, others snickering. The feeling can be exquisitely uncomfortable, but like anything new the novelty wears
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Don’t think for yourself,You’ll get confused or lost;We’ve got all your answers,And they’ve all been glossed. Only we speak the truth,And there is much to fear;Yet with us you’ll have hope,To our rules you must adhere. This way to the promise,Our unquestioning sheep;But should you speak out,Guilt upon you we’ll heap. For we know too
SB LACROIX 