#creativewriters

She reminded me of soft piano tunes, The brightness of a sunflower, The warmth of a fire.

Cold is the November night, Warm is her tight embrace.

How often it is we fail to see light in our lives, How easy it is for her to find it for others. Though i do hope she holds her own light to see—not only to guide.

Though she is warmth, sunlight and softness, She is not perfect. But to love someone is not to see them perfectly, But to see their imperfections perfectly.

I’m like true that’s true. However the devil comes out when someone wants to fuck with me face to face in my presence 2 inches away when we’re in the same room or building.

I’ve done it before I’ve put people in their places such as in High School, family members, old ex friends. Past relationships. I Don’t see an issue standing up for my beliefs and defending myself. There’s nothing wrong about standing up for yourself when it’s needed.

I’m also human. I’m not going to let a person put their hands me. Without not me fighting back. Subliminal dissing me in front of my face. Trying to copy my passion creative skills things I’ve worked on since years ago. When reality I’ve been there since day one. Especially disrespecting my family? My background. That’s when a bitch needs to be put in their place.

At the end of the day always be you. Don’t change for anyone. You have a voice and you have a purpose why you’re in this world.

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Life's mysteries

Have cleared the smoke

That obscured them

Now they lay bare before me

And I have seen the truth

I am not the man observing

This body in the mirror

I am not the thoughts

Penned herein

I am not the heart

Rended to pieces by emotions

I am not anything

I am the nothing

Borne of something

I am the bruise colored void

Of the womb that gestates lies

If I would not absolve me

Of my own sins

Then father need only forgive

A date with a fifth of Jack

Drink until I see the center of the sun

Let the whiskey turn my vision black

Bordering on suicide by dram

I curse at God from my kitchen floor

Covered in someone else's vomit

Tell me that fairytale again

About the man who rights his wrongs

And finds the meaning of life outside drugs

Can't cut the strings

That have been holding me back

Because they're the only thing holding me up

I can't run so I have to plan

Carving myself into paper dolls

If I could set you free

I would break the chains

With my own teeth

If I could bring you back

I would take the rubies

Out of my blood

To pay your return fare

Across the Styx.

Until I spoke your name

I never knew hunger

Was an ache baptised in desire

Until I touched your skin

Love was a concept

Then I wept in wisdom

Of things such as passion

I wish you could have known me

When smiles came to my face with ease

Instead of contrived grimaces

Of what I recall they feel like

And I've been drowning my synapses

In LSD and marijuana and benzos and booze

So my memory is a bit off

And I am sure I look ill

When I proffer such a grin

At the exact wrong moment

"She's dying is ..."

And bam, I hit them with

The facial contortionists razzle dazzle

And it registers, to both of us

What I have done

Both horrified

But hey, I wish you could have known me

When smiles beamed from my face

Like the rays from the sun that come

To kiss your brow

“Chart Notes”

When they ask for names,

I have them.

They swarm.

They fly across my mind like paperwork

I've rehearsed handing over conditions I've read about at three in the morning,

words that almost fit—

until they don't.

But they don't hear that part.

They see a girl in her 20s

who had a baby too young,

who speaks too carefully,

who chose today, of all days—

to finally ask for help.

They tell me I'm not unique.

They don't say it cruelly.

That's the problem.

They say it like reassurance.

Like permission to minimize.

Everyone has migraines.

Everyone has mood swings.

Everyone gets overwhelmed.

There are rules.

I have to earn belief.

I have to show up again.

And again.

And again—

with the same story,

the same symptoms,

the same look on my face

that says I swear I'm not lying.

I only come here

during brief clearings—

those manic moments

where I recognize I deserve better,

where survival feels negotiable,

where I still have the energy

to advocate for myself

before it disappears again.

They don't chart that part.

They narrow me.

They condense my days into bullet points.

Sticky notes.

Prescriptions for the loudest symptoms—

the ones that interrupt their schedule.

Migraine.

Mood.

Sleep.

Everything else becomes background noise,

even to me.

After a while,

the list starts to feel fictional.

If no one can hold it all,

maybe it isn't real.

Maybe I'm just bad at being alive.

No doctor sits long enough

to hear what happens every day,

and what happens rarely

but badly—

the faintness,

the paralysis,

jaw clenched so tight my teeth are cracking,

the moments where my body

refuses to cooperate without explanation.

I can describe it perfectly.

I always can.

But if they don't see it,

it doesn't exist.

And if it doesn't exist,

no one can help me.

So I stand at a crossroads

that no one acknowledges:

keep writing about the things

I don't understand and can't fix,

or fight tooth and nail for a diagnosis that might finally make me legible.

Writing is easier.

Writing doesn't require proof.

It doesn't tilt its head at my age

or my motherhood

or the way I learned pain too early.

Writing is just for me.

Because if I keep fighting,

if I keep showing up,

I will have to endure

that look—

the one that follows me

until the very last moment,

until something undeniable appears,

something they can see

with their own eyes.

For Catholic women’s book clubs seeking a deeply moving and inspiring historical fiction novel, consider Listen to Your Heart — a rich story of faith, family, sacrifice, and vocation set against the backdrop of Swiss immigration to America in 1866.

John and Marie Kerker arrive in Minnesota filled with hope, determination, and entrepreneurial spirit. As pioneers building a new life, the close-knit Kerker family becomes known for their musical talents, educational leadership, and tireless dedication to their Catholic community. Through heartfelt fundraisers and unwavering faith, they help establish Guardian Angels Catholic Church and eventually the parish grade school beside it.

At the center of the story is young Rosa Kerker, whose quiet but persistent calling begins to shape her future. Yet the path before her is anything but easy. Faced with family expectations, hardship, and her father’s strong opposition to the life she longs for most, Rosa must discover whether she has the courage to follow God’s call.

Filled with historical detail, strong family bonds, music, faith, and perseverance, Listen to Your Heart offers meaningful themes perfect for discussion:

Women’s roles in family and Church life

Vocational discernment

Immigrant resilience and sacrifice

The power of community and Catholic education

Trusting God through hardship

An uplifting and inspirational selection, this novel is ideal for women who enjoy faith-filled historical fiction that sparks both heartfelt conversation and spiritual reflection.