The Lonely One

A lonely child
Hiding in the dark
Praying to be discovered
But fearing to be uncovered

Why can’t she be more like the rest of us?
They asked

A lonely teen
Struggling to fit in
Praying to be accepted
But fearing to be rejected

Why can’t she conform to society’s norms?
They asked

A lonely adult
Standing proudly on her own
Praying to be comprehended
But fearing to be misunderstood

Why can’t they accept me for who I am?
I cried

Slowly I Fade

Slowly I fade

Childhood memories
Tossed about on the pages of my mind
Growing dimmer
With the passing of time

Slowly I fade

Friendships fading
Brittle as autumn leaves
Scattered across the forest floor
A victim of Father Time and Mother Earth

Slowly I fade

Family once gathered
Now torn apart
No ties binding
Only tears and regret for what was

Slowly I fade

True Destiny

My old friend you’re back.
In such an unwelcome way.
Taken up residence once again
In my heart and in my head.
My casual smile belies the bitter anger
Rising in my blood.
I had come so far.

But we all have our limits.
Invisible tethers designed to keep us
From straying too far from our destiny.
And that’s all it is after all ~ destiny.


She could count her friends on . . . well, she didn’t even need fingers. She was certain the people she knew LIKED her, but the late-night phone call on a Saturday night friend? That she didn’t have.

Do you really wonder why people leap to their deaths? It’s because in a world of 8 billion people, they can’t make a real connection to a single soul. And it’s not their fault. And it’s not your fault either. Not really. On this supercharged, high-pressure, success-driven, always plugged-in highway, some people never quite master the rules of the road – mere passengers in life. And, in their quest for the best, the ones in the fast lane drive right on by without a glance in their rear-view mirror. Each passenger on his own path, each driver worried about her own destination. Neither giving a thought to the basic and indispensable humanity underneath it all.

So, she sits alone every Saturday night. She stopped listening for the phone to ring a long time ago. And she always knows the location of the nearest bridge. It gives her a strange sort of comfort.

Heart Wall

She tried to open her heart and let them in. But she had built the wall deep and tall and strong. And the harder she struggled to break it down the more she feared the pain of rejection. The thing she wanted most was the thing that would destroy her. So she closed herself up and locked them out and continued her solitary journey in silent still loneliness.

The Lies We Believe

The sadness has returned. That old familiar friend. Uninvited, unwelcome, she sits with me and whispers into my ear about all of my failures and all of my fears. She tells me of the things I cannot do and the things I cannot be simply because I’m me. She smiles her sly smile, knowing I believe her lies. Because I have to believe in something. And she knows it isn’t me.


In that moment, she gave up. The light in her eyes was slowly smothered. She accepted her fate, that cruelest of mistresses. Hearing the voices echo in her ears, taunting her, mocking her. “You don’t have it bad, you ungrateful bitch. You should be thankful.” She sat in her gilded cage, freedom an elusive dream, and wondered if you could die from a broken heart.


I’ve always thought I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Let me give you an example. When I was a teenager I listened to Linda Ronstadt backed by the Nelson Riddle Orchestra as she crooned classic jazz tunes like I’ve Got A Crush On You, My Funny Valentine and Someone to Watch Over Me. I admit I had my classic Ronstadt rock days in my very early youth listening to my older sister’s albums, but when Linda went old-school, that was my jam. So while my friends listened to the hottest top 40 songs, I sang of living “the lush life in some small dive” and “hanging my tears out to dry”. These were the words that resonated with me. Nobody understood me.

I guess I’m one of those old souls. I’ve always related to odd things – rather, things that people my age would find it odd to relate to, because I don’t find them odd at all. I think this is why I’ve never quite felt like I fit in anywhere. The square peg, round hole thing. Whether it was my family, my friends, my school – everywhere I went just seemed . . . off. When I was younger it bothered me. Now that I’m older, more experienced, more comfortable with myself . . . I embrace the odd. I’m an old soul in the wrong place but always at the right time.


Writing frees me, not being able to write confines me. The simple act of putting words to paper, feelings strung together in letters and phrases, is a catharsis that I’ve grown accustomed to. When I go too long without being able to write I feel the weight of my emotions from deep inside, crushing my heart and soul. The quandary is that often times, it’s the same emotions that keep me from writing.


She said the words that, maybe thoughtless and unintentional, felt cruel and vicious and ripped my heart to shreds. I was back in high school again, feeling betrayed and ostracized and alone. All my yesterdays came crashing into my tomorrows. And I’m left to pick up the pieces and slowly put my life back together, minus one good friend.


Sometimes you get your heart broken by a lover. These are the times we struggle within; was it something I said – didn’t say, was it the way I looked or the way I smelled? Sometimes we come up with the most outrageous notions just to ease our minds and blame ourselves when really – maybe it wasn’t our fault at all.

Then there are the times we get our heart broken by a friend. I learned very early on not to put my trust in friends just for this reason. If I held them at a distance they couldn’t hurt me as much. But I recently let one too close. Why? Isn’t that the 64 million dollar question. She seemed trustworthy, she seemed interested, she seemed different than everyone else, like she didn’t have an agenda, like she truly cared about me. To my credit I didn’t let her all the way in – I never do. But just enough to break a piece of heart big enough to matter.

She won’t read this, she doesn’t read my work. If she did I wonder if it would even affect her. Our last conversation I told her I needed some time alone and she didn’t even ask what was wrong. If she did maybe she would know how to fix it. And maybe that’s my fault after all.


I disagree with the life you’re leading and the choices you’re making. You deliberately misrepresented yourself and I fell for the man you pretended to be. How could I know it was all a lie? You should know that you shook my faith in humanity. You made such an impact on my life, I know that was my fault really, but I believed that someone could be such a good person, someone just like you, down deep in their heart, could care so much because that’s what you pretended to do. And me, so gullible and naive, to think any human could care that much about anything or anyone. You shook my faith in humanity. Shame on you. For making me care. For making me believe. Now I see monsters where angels once flew.

Thank You

I’m very excited right now. Today marks my 100th post! This is a huge milestone for me. I didn’t start writing until February of this year and it took months before I considered myself a “writer”. I almost quit too many times to count.

I started off writing short story fanfiction and then later I started this blog. I love my daily word posts but I miss writing the longer, complex stories so I’m now going to focus on those other projects as well.

Thanks to everyone who has dropped by to read and especially those who have generously shared their thoughts with me. One of my goals as a writer is to touch the lives of others. I hope to keep doing that.


Today I quit you for good. At least that’s what I keep telling myself. All of the pictures, which I had taken down and put in drawers but secretly taken out every now and again to stare at and dream and wish, are stored in boxes, taped shut for protection. From the weather, from me.

The well worn t-shirts that still smell like you and fit as snugly as your arms encircling me are in a box in the garage labeled for Goodwill. Along with a few of the gifts you gave me which now bring me to tears just looking at.

I don’t listen to my iPod because all the songs remind me of you, even the old jazz tunes by Ella Fitzgerald that you claimed to hate but I would catch you humming when you thought I wasn’t listening. Music was my refuge, now it offered me no hope.

My life is a shell now, a painful reminder of what I used to have, the fullness of life with you in it. I’m a ghost in my own empty life. But now that I’ve quit you for good maybe I can start to patch up the pieces. Find all the little bits that have been shed during your leaving and finally put them back together again. Maybe not into the same person, but a more deserving person.

I think I can finally find the peace I need to move on without you. Because loving you was good. And wishing you would come back was oh so hopeful. But moving on – moving on is right.



“It’s lonely when you have an opinion.” I heard her voice before I saw her, sitting on the park bench, shoulders slumped in surrender. I glanced around and realized she was talking to me. Without making eye contact, staring at the ground, she continued, “they say they want you to tell the truth but they don’t, really. They don’t want to know how you really feel. But still, they tell you they want the truth.”

I sat on the farthest end of the bench and quietly spoke, “Who wants the truth?”

She looked at me, eyes opened wide, and her gaze penetrated my soul. “Everyone.”