Dear Former Self

Dear Former Self
Its been a long time since we spoke
But now the time has come to work on letting go
I been working to get us past the past
To release judgments and anger and collected hurts
the broken promises from self and others
I will make sure you are safe and protected
I will show compassion when you are feeling neglected
I will open you up, bring light to your wounds
that have festered and been infected
The time has come to heal
We have to stop bottling up and allow us to feel
No more fake smiles to hide pain
Your journey to healing will not be in vain
We will get through this former self, I know
It time for us to release all that hinders us and grow

Another Prose Poem/Prompt 13 Hour 10

As I writer I often dream. I am alone in a wood. My own personal retreat, to write, to decompress from city life, to get grounded. A log cabin on the lake is where I see me. A cabin surrounded by firs. In the early morning, my favorite writing time, a fog drifts in. Alone, I am on the porch, sitting. My journal lies open on a table beside me, my pen lies within its crease. Coffee mug in hand, I gaze out at the lake, now blanketed with fog. I listen as the wind gently blows. The firs whisper to one another, the house creaks, the aroma of coffee fills my nose. It is the night that brings me the most solace. I dream of how it rolls in, silently. With it comes silence, as it brings a hush to the daytime sounds. I am curled up on the armchair, a book in my hands, chosen from the shelf of the cabin’s very own library. I’m at peace, caressed by moonbeams, I read.

A Boy’s Life (Robert McGammon) or The Musings of a Little Girl

Boys have all the fun
They get play all day and run
They can fall down and get dirty
While I gotta sit back and be purty
Prim and proper is the way of the land
You gotta learn how to act to get a husband
No running, no jumping, no skinned up knees
You gotta be a lady and learn how to please
Boys got it made I swear it’s true
Sometimes I wish I was a boy too


A life of love she lacked
riddled with turmoil, pain
and unhappiness

A decision she made to heal
learned empathy, compassion
and self love

Now she is rooted in love

Music and Writing/Prompt 9 Hour 7

Music can be
Intrusive, distracting
during my writing time
lyrics carry me off topic
deep beats, groovy melodies
I’m listening more than I’m writing
Snapping my fingers and bobbing my head
I can’t get it done this way, frustrated
Something had to change
Opened up to something new
Symphonic poems, classical music
preferably slow, completely unfamiliar
symphony-style by unfamiliar composers
Now my writing flows easily
Mission accomplished

Locked Out/Prompt 8 Hour 6

The ancestors built it with the sweat from their backs
Eyes full of tears, waiting for years
For a compensation that will never be received
Fought in every war for freedom, but denied his own
Viewed like animals, shot down like dogs in the street
To rot for hours in 90 degree heat
Protests and marching, marching and beat
Black fists raised high for all to see
Respect must be given, I am a man too
Instead fear was the feeling that permanently ensued
Every win was tainted with the sting of deceit
Cointelpro, Patriot Act and the Crime Bill of ’94
History rewritten to hide deeper what’s been hidden
Working full-time to lock out an entire people
This is the view from within the ghettos
Spaces and places where being locked out is known and grows

Fish Fright/Prompt 6 Hour 5

From a sewer they came
multicolored and large
fins flapping, bodies waving
sharp teeth bared
Chewing air, they fly
to me, I’m afraid
Big googly eyes stare, unwavering
bodies undulating
I turn, I am running
pursuit begins
Fins flapping
teeth gnashing
Me, running
more coming

A Prose Poem/Prompt 5 Hour 4

A gasp escapes me at the sight of it. An ugly winged thing. The orange, a delicious contrast to the darkness beneath it and that above it. That monstrosity, spindly legs, touching the orange pulp. Dark wings, stand as if pinned on its back. I can feel fear ready to scream. It tickles the back of my throat. If it flies I will scream holy hell and miss the moment. Its ugliness is somehow, enchanting, I think to myself. I move in closer, fascinated. I zoom in, ready to scream if it opens its wings, and snap the picture.

The Writer’s Desk Prompt 3 Hour 3

There it stands, against the wall
Dark brown and piled high with
All things NOT writing
I stare at it, against the wall
Neglected, it has been
Covered with papers, books and magazines
Literary journals lie, piled up beneath it

I stare at my creation
A desk, against the wall, showing
me my own procrastination
At organizing, at reading, at writing
Neglected, it has been
My writing life, like the desk
Piled high with excuses

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