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It's strange when time passes by so slow.
Reminds me of my childhood.

Reminds me of moments of nothing;
no worries, no fears.
Just moments of pureness,
not the passings of years.

Time meant nothing
and was clocked by the sun.
The day was spent running,
doing nothing that wasn't fun.
It was an innocence that still lingers.
The lightness is still felt in my chest.
And a smile plays upon my lips,
but I'm torn, wanting to forget.

The memories make me smile
but that smile slowly fades.
Because they are only memories
and my time now is spent in this maze.
Full of lefts and rights
with each right yet still wrong.
And I stand lost in the middle,
wondering if this is even where I belong.

Why am I here?
Forget how. I don't care.
But why am I stuck in this place,
so lost, yet aware.
I know it doesn't feel right,
this place is not meant for me.
I'm meant for that day in the grass,
my heart's meant to be carefree.

Meant for those memories of nothing;
no worries, no fears.
Just memories of pureness,
not the passings of years.

It's strange when time passes by so slow.
Reminds me of my childhood.

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Shut the world out with the closing of my eyes.

The clock ticks on, marking the passing of time.

Yet I worry not for you're here at my side,

and it's the warmth of your hand I feel here, held in mine.

There's something so pure, so subtle it can't be grasped.

Now the clock fades in the background.

Time's only marked by heart beats that pass.

Untitled Poem

Something pure touches my soul.
Tears come freely, falling in flow.

Unspeakable power,
too monumental to grasp
has me on bended knee,
pulled back to my past.
Where peace held my hand
and expression illuminated my path.
I surrendered to this place
where doubt fell as shadows vanished.

Letting go of my pain and relinquishing all thought,
I feel my soul set free and the world's burdens forgot.

Rhythms In Time

My thoughts of mind spin their own time
of streaming verse of long line after line.
All hours of night, without distraction of day,
they unfold their fancy, carrying my dreams away.

Sleep means nothing to these lumbering quandaries,
trampling my peace and the good night's sleep.
They engulf me completely, ignoring all boundaries,
stealing my rest while making my spirit feel weak.

They search for rhymes and rhythms in time,
as if no other way could be seen,
to express the thoughts locked deep inside,
and night was the only time to be free.

Words of Wisdom

I have finally decided to post this. These are the wise words I read in a book that snapped me out of a long standing creative funk and I know that a lot of you are either struggling with your own writings or have yet to be able to find that confidence in expressing what you have to say. So I'm posting these words by Dorothea Brande and hope that they help you as much as they did me. Because I'm not sure I would have started "Where Love Leads Us" without having read it.

"But then comes the dawning comprehension of all that a writer's life implies: not easy daydreaming, but hard work at turning the dream into reality without sacrificing all its glamor; not the passive following of someone else's story, but the finding and finishing of a story of one's own; not writing a few pages which will be judged for style or correctness alone, but the prospect of turning out paragraph after paragraph and page after page which will be read for style, content, and effectiveness.

 

Nor is this by any means all the beginning writer foresees. He worries to think of his immaturity, and wonders how he ever dared to think he had a word worth saying. He gets as stage-struck at the thought of his unseen readers as any sapling actor. He discovers that when he is able to plan a story step by step, the fluency he needs to write it has flown out the window; or that when he lets himself off on a loose rein, suddenly the story is out of hand. He fears that he has a tendency to make his stories all alike, or paralyzes himself with the notion that he will never, when this story is finished, find another that he likes as well.

 

He will begin to follow current reputations and harry himself because he has not this writer's humor or that one's ingenuity. He will find a hundred reasons to doubt himself and not one for self-confidence. He will suspect that those who encourage him are too lenient, or too far from the market to know the standards of successful fiction. Or he will read the work of a real genius in words, and the discrepancy between that gift and his own will seem a chasm to swallow his hopes. In such a state, lightened now and again by moments when he feels his own gift alive and surging, he may stay for moths of years.

 

Every writer goes through this period of despair. Without doubt many promising writers, and most of those who were never meant to write, turn back at this point and find a lifework less exacting. "

In the Shadows

Have you ever been so lonely,

that you see faces in the shadows?

They look back and see you too,

and all the things you don't show?

That hidden behind a facade of peace

churns a stirring tide of affliction?

And that you've been pushed aside and ignored at times;

suffocating in self-restrictions,

because self-assumptions of failing notions

now impede all your attempts at flying

high above the mundane world

and all the let downs you'd be denying?

Write Me A Poem

Write me a poem. Write me your words.
Tell me your thoughts and the things that you've heard.
Share with me your life, your love, and passion.
Tell me of your day's experiences and what unexpected things happened.

Express to me what you never have before,
Because it's the expression of such that makes our love grow more.
A deeper connection grows strong from such things
And away with your thoughts, my heart flies and it sings.

Sings of days spent with my head on your chest.
When time ticks by slower, more content than the rest.
When my heart was not mine, but yours instead.
And when I realized that I, before you, was dead.

You gave life to these bone, breathed air to my lungs.
Your gift of words gave me miles of dreams to be spun.
You gave me things I could never give in return:
a passion for love and life that inside me just burns.

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I was working on the Adrianne/Quinn fic when this poem came to me. If put in context with the story, it would be from Rachel to Quinn in BWYDT.

What Words Miss

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What music does not emote,
and canvas cannot portray,
and what words miss,
is everything I want to say.

My mind races away all day
but my ears do not hear its calls,
my mouth cannot speak its words,
and my heart feels naught but its falls.

I would sit a thousand years in silence
and before you I would kneel,
if you could provide me with the words to say
and I could just express how I feel.
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