Progress But Same Old

    Every step of life has its own milestones. In my life, turning 12 made me a young woman, 16 allowed dating, 18 was full of voting rights. At some point I finished reading Harry Potter, I bought my first car, I got engaged. For everyone their milestones are different. For me, I decided to add education as a part of my life journey. Due to this, I now face a rather big milestone in that journey. I am finishing my undergraduate degree. As of December 20th, I will have graduated with my Bachelor's.

    Read the rest of this post at: https://www.gossamerlens.com/post/progress-but-same-old

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Holding On and Moving On

     The last couple years have changed me as a person. With this in mind, I yearn to reach out and to blog again. However, I cannot do so as The Damsel. I have changed to much. While I hold onto the core of me. The writer, the poet. I must move on to a different way of expressing and being. For some this change will seem paltry. For me it has been cleansing. I am moving onto a new blog platform. A link all my own, a website fully functional to the new whims I have.

     I am pleased to introduce you to gossamerlens.com 

     In the blogpost of the same name "Holding On and Moving On" you will find an entry into a new chapter. For sometimes as we grow we must make space for the old us but move on to fulfill ourselves.

     If you wish to continue reading my work, supporting my writing, and see how I have grown and wish to grow my blogger presence... I hope you will scroll to the bottom of the gossamerlens.com and give me a like over there. Following 2019 posts will be posted both here and on my new blog. However, come 2020 it will be all about moving on. 

     Much love, and with goodbyes, The Damsel. 

     Ald Idunn, the new me, looks forward to greeting you.

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Swirling, Moving Emotions

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     A Blank Page before me, a head full of thoughts.  

     Nothing written in ages, so many things to write. 

     I am a person who feels. The other evening my cat needed to take a pill. My mother asked me to put it in as she held him. I, a 19-year-old woman, did my best couple attempts. He mewled quite pitifully and my heart burst, and tears came forth. 

     Once when I was maybe 7 or 9, some age not currently mine. My mum and I went through my room and cleaned out things that were broken, unused, unheeded. I threw away a broken heart shaped music box. It locked, it sang, it was from a friend, and it was broken. We threw it away. Sometime, a couple weeks later, I was caught in a frenzy of searching. It may have been late. All I know is the moon was up when my father came into my room to find his daughter rummaging through her room, with a tear-stained face. I cried my heart out over that box. I sobbed into my father's chest over that box. I don't even remember who it was from... Nor my age... Or details. It was broken and I cried for it's loss.

     I felt. 

     With my 19-year-old tears, in mind, over a cat who's sick and doesn't want his medicine. 

     With my 7 or 9-year-old tears over a broken plastic box, in mind. 

     Let's think of lately. 

     About a year ago I got out of my first serious relationship, with an emotionally abusive boyfriend. I have dated a Marine who was lovely, but broken and hurting. I have watched someone, who irks my feminist and human leanings, become president of the U.S. All this while I traveled along a path of faith. A path leading from confusion, in regards to the church I loved, to hurt... to helplessness... to a changing. 

     I have held silence. Because I feel so very much and this past year has been so very hard. I feel insecure in my feelings. I know so many people have it worse. So, who am I to speak of my feelings? Of my hurt? I want to speak to the pain of the world. But all to often I speak of the pain of my world. The world I am oh so much more familiar with. 

    But silence is not my answer. Poetry has been my leaning. Writing is just an extension of my being. So I'm going to try and forget myself, my insecurity, my uncertainty... the me. 

    I simply want to write and give into the swirling, moving emotions that are to be. 

To Study or To Learn?

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     I sit here studying.  I worry about my assignments, the coming tests (especially finals), and ultimately my grades.  We (although maybe it's just me?) as students tend to take in information in order to pour it back out.  All to often it's about grades and not about actually learning and growing off of information.  

     I wish I could say I break away from this.  That I ignore the grade, and just do it for the learning.  I wish I could say this, because I truly value the idea of soaking in knowledge.  I love the idea of learning just for the sake of learning.  Not for doing well on the next test, and then forgetting all the information after the test is over. But the fact is, I'm competitive and I cannot help myself.  

     Through being homeschooled I learned to love and appreciate learning in general.  I legitimately enjoy learning new things, and I want to keep all the information I can.  Yet, a great part of me wants to do as well as I can, and to beat my previous scores. I want to impress the teacher (if possible) or impress myself.  And if I can't impress my teacher or myself I simply strive to get the best number and/or letter grade possible.  I want to do my best.  All to often "doing my best" ends up meaning "get the best grade"... and I'm tired of it. 

     Shouldn't doing your best mean something more than getting a nice letter grade written on that last biology test?  Shouldn't doing your best mean that you are interested? Shouldn't it mean remembering things?  Shouldn't learning meaning something more?

     I think that learning should mean something more.  It should mean something more than studying late to pass tests, working to get the best grade you can, and memorizing facts (or teachers ideas).  Learning, according to Webster, means gaining "knowledge or skills through experience, study, or by being taught."  Maybe we should balance out our focus and think a little less about studying or being taught, and think a little more about learning through experience. 

     I plan on balancing a little more this summer, and having more full experiences. Join me? 

Two Stories, One Illustration ~ Part Two ~With Kiluminvti & A.J.Tawil

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    If you haven't already read Part One (click here to read) you might ask, "What does this title mean?"  Well let me explain, this post is apart of a collaboration with the artist Kiluminvti, and writer A.J.Tawil.  In this two part series two stories are told.  The first is featured in a previous post and is written by A.J.Tawil. The second story is shared below and told by myself.  Each story is unique and separate from the other, only linked by the fact that they are both inspired by what our imaginations saw when we viewed the following illustration done by Kiluminvti. 

     Without further ado, I present my story: 

     Slowly her fingers curled around the ribbon.  

     Her head caught in a cloud of ribbon, her shoulders brushed with it.  Her hands couldn't help but let it wind through them.  When had it appeared?  Who knew. Some said it had always been with her.  Some whispered that it had appeared out of the blue.  But no matter how people imagined it came into being... the fact was that it was.  Had she ever tried to rid herself of it? No! For she clung to it, as it was her uniqueness. None could claim, nor even remember, someone who had such a beautiful highlight of color.  Especially one that floated around, and about, and with them at all times. 

     Often people traveled to see this lady with the flowing ribbon.  It fascinated them.  The young men spoke of how it highlighted her graceful shape.  The mothers clucked and worried about their own daughters who were "not so naturally gifted." This lady never thought to tell of how sometimes it got in the way.  Of how she might be trying to help with chores, and instead she would catch in the ribbon.  As time went on, she didn't even think much of how it tore her away from work.  What was work anyway, when she had something that drew people towards her?  

     Now though, she sat.  Slowly her fingers curled around the ribbon.  In days past she had often thought outside of the ribbon.  Outside of letting it fascinate her.  But now, it no longer just drew her away from work.  It drew her away from reading.  Sometimes away from friends.  Once she had cared, now she let herself get caught in looking at the shimmering red of it, whenever she wanted.  Lately, as long as she wanted.  

     In fact, she couldn't stop looking.  Because really, wasn't all that she was?  It was beauty, it was special, people found her to see it.  So wasn't that what she should focus on?  Slowly her fingers curled around the ribbon.  Not knowing her own thoughts and the questions brewing.  Her fingers curled around the ribbon.  She just knew it felt like everything.  Her fingers curled around the ribbon. 

     Slowly. Curled. Around. Like the drowning of a mind. 

     Loosing herself in what everyone else could see. 

     Forgetting to be

~~~

   Thank you for reading! 

If you would like to see more of Kiluminvti's art some of A.J. Tawil's writing simply click on the name of either artist (anywhere in this post) and it will take you to more of their work. 

Want to read Part One of this collaboration? Click here

Two Stories, One Illustration ~ Part One ~ With Kiluminvti & A.J.Tawil

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    What does this title mean you may ask?  Well let me explain, this post is part of a collaboration with the artist Kiluminvti, and writer A.J.Tawil.  In this two part series two stories shall be told.  The first is featured in this post and is written by A.J.Tawil. The second story shall be told by myself, next week.  Each story is unique and separate from the other, only linked by the fact that they are both inspired by what our imaginations saw when we viewed the following illustration done by Kiluminvti. 

     Without further ado, I present to you A.J.Tawil's story:

     A dreadful story it is that I am too afraid to speak it. Thus it will be written down on black and white. Do not read aloud not even in whispers for she will hear and only misery will be upon you. Arielle she was once called a beautiful and fair lady. She was kind, and lovely. At the age of 12 her mother died of a violent fever as they all mourned her death she swore an: that never in her life will she be standing idle and useless. 

     A healer she became at the age of 16. The youngest of them but the most talented. She went from town to town, leaving her father, brothers and sisters behind. Although they were proud they were sad for a presence like hers couldn't ever be replaced. She healed and treated the rich as well as the poor. She was believed by many to be a Saint. She smiled much and her gaze was enough to cure all your heart's sorrows. 

     One day in the town of Flamant she met this boy this little kid of too few a winter to die. She spent sun and moon trying to heal him until he passed away in her arms. The eldest brother, although pained with grief, grew found of the courageous and inspiring woman and she as well. He was brave young man that would anything for his family, she thought.

     They wed a year later in Arielle's home town of Lyon many attended her wedding. High lords, Nobles, peasants and kings were all there to celebrate her wedding. She was loved by all. The newlyweds went on the road together and made a stop in Ashton. Beautiful Ashton, the moon shined, the food was excellent, and the weather perfect. 

     She strolled around walking from street to street, admiring the city with her husband until a sudden pull swept her off her feet. It was two lowlifes scums pulling her towards them by her hair. She fought back but overwhelmed by a surprise hit to the head, she fell flat on her stomach. One was holding her down by the arms with his nose sniffing her beautiful black hair.She looked up for an instant just to realize that her husband the young brave man she loved so dearly was running away from the scene without a glance back. She yelled and fought so hard that the one mounting her hit her on the back of her head. ''That's a nice ring ya' have have '' he spat he went for the wedding band, while the other held her wrist. She didn't let them take it so easily, although betrayed. The rogue drew his knife and cut of the finger that was bearing the jewel.

     The rest is history. She was raped, punched, kicked and left to die.

~~~

   Thank you for reading! 

If you would like to see more of Kiluminvti's art some of A.J. Tawil's writing simply click on the name of either artist (anywhere in this post) and it will take you to more of their work. 

Wibbly Wobbly Adulthood

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     At some point... you become an adult. Correct?  I mean, I don't really know.  It's a little hard to tell if someones an adult, or just a really big kid... Though we seem to have some adults in this world (or people who claim to be).  

     I guess we could say that I question adulthood. How can you not? I mean... nobody really knows when it happens.  Are you an adult when you turn 18?  Or perhaps once you can drink?  Or maybe when you can legally rent a car?  I don't know.  We don't know.  Nobody can seem to agree on when you become an adult. That's a little confusing, don't you think?   

     Well, forget the confusion... I'll just say 18 is adulthood. We will say, 18 is adulthood.  

     In that case, I am an adult now!  That thought is overwhelming.  Not in the way a test may be, or any kind of physical or mental exertion would be.  But rather in the way a sudden realization might be. In fact, it is sort of a realization.  Turning 18 has been a sudden realization that I've been around a decent bit.  I am done with high-school, I am moving into some of my final stages of college... And yet I feel completely unprepared "to adult." Taxes, paying for necessities, my actions being my own... it is all a little overwhelming. 

     
     I feel like no amount of Self-Help  books will help me become the adult I want to be.  So naturally, I've read all the Self-Help books I can get my hands on.  Maybe I'm a little silly.  On one hand I feel ready to be an adult, and on the other I don't want to even think about adulting.  

     Perhaps my anxiety comes from the fact that I don't want to just be an "adult".  I want to be a full functioning and contributing human being.  I don't want to just do things.  I want to see, learn, educate, help, and spread love.  I don't just want to adult. I want to be the best adult I can possibly be.  Humanity needs more then adults who can be confused for "big children."  The world needs more humans who are trying to balance what wibbly wobbly adulthood means. 

Deaths Fingers

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     Death has touched my family with its greedy fingers.  No longer does it claw at my neck, but still it stays near.  It's fingers have effected each in my family in their own way. I will always wish it hadn’t come, or that it could have waited a few years.  That those fingers could have been kept at bay.  However, there is hard truth that will always be reality. Death will claim all of us in the end.  

     January 28th, 2010.  The evening before, we had all sat together joking over dinner; laughing, unaware of what would happen tomorrow.  

     In the midst of laughter, Grandpa spilled his cup of water all over the table while passing food to my brother.  

     With familiar mock anger Grandpa had exclaimed, “Thomas*, how could you spill my water?”

     My brother, understanding Grandpa's humor, laughed along.  Upon questioning Grandpa had jokingly claimed it was all my brother’s fault. Because the food was being passed to him when the glass had been tipped over, Thomas must be blamed.  Laughing along with the general merriment and Grandpa’s kindly sarcastic words, I had gotten a towel, cleaned up the water and righted the glass.

     After dinner we all separated to go to our own beds.  My Nanna and Grandpa retired to my family's rental “cottage” right behind our own house.

***  

     That night, I slept well until the sirens came.  I had awoken to see flashing red and white lights dancing on the walls of my upstairs bedroom as a car turned into our driveway.  The siren stopped just moments after waking me.

     Within those moments of waking, and grogginess I had realized that something was wrong.  I slipped out of bed and then went into my sister’s room.  She lay in her bed, eyes open and frightened.  I had beckoned to her, wanting her to come with me, or at least to me.  She clambered out of bed and came.  I slipped my hand around hers, and together we had went into the hall and down the stairs.  

     We went through the living room, family room, and dining room as we traveled to the back of the house.  We went to the window facing the back property.  The window that locked on our Grandparent's front door. My brother had already stood, watching the car outside.  It was an ambulance.  We watched until a man opened the door to the back rental.  He held the door open as a couple of men, along with my mum, carried our Grandpa out on a stretcher.  

     That morning the ambulance left with my Grandpa.  Our parents came running over barefoot.  They came just long enough to tell us that they were taking Nanna and following the ambulance to the hospital. Before leaving they slipped on shoes, and hugged my siblings and I, and said they would send someone to be with us. We knew that they would most likely be gone until mid-afternoon. 

***

     I was left with my siblings.  We sat ourselves at the table in a sort of daze.  My sister was worried and scared, so I tried my best to comfort her.  I promised her that Grandpa would live.  I promised that everything would be all right. I knew that it was an empty promise, but it made her, and me, feel better. 

     Then we heard a knock on the door.  

     It was an older woman that we knew well from church.  We let her in.  She was the one our parents had called so that we wouldn't be alone.  I was glad and relieved.  Here was an adult.  She could make promises that would be kept; she would help my sister be comforted and calm the fear that was rising in my heart.  She would help.  

     So sure was I that she could help, because she was an adult.  

     Instead, she declared that we needed to do the dishes.  She said that service would help us feel better. She claimed it, so we did it.  As my sister and I unloaded, the dishwasher, I got more and more upset.  I wasn’t feeling better, my heart hurt with fear. I felt my Grandpa missing. So I tried to think of it more as service and not a chore.  I couldn’t force down the fear that was still rising.  Unshed tears stung my eyes and the kitchen shimmered and swam through them.  I told myself that I couldn’t cry.  I couldn't let it happen. This would help me feel better, she had said so.  My sister needed me to be strong.  I couldn’t cry. 

     The women swept and talked at the same time.  I could catch phrases like: “This will help your mom feel better,” “She won’t be as overwhelmed,” “You need to keep out of her way so you don’t annoy her,” and finally, “Your parents should have taught you about death.”  I couldn’t listen anymore.  I was done with listening to this woman’s incessant chatter of how we needed to prepare, how we needed to help our parents, and what our mother should have done.  

     “Our parents don’t hide us from the truth.”  I whispered.

     “Well, yes, but your Grandpa is going to die, and they should have prepared you.”

     I was mad; I was upset; I was scared; and this woman who was supposed to comfort us was telling me that my Grandpa would die.  I couldn’t control my tears anymore.  I let go and ran from the room.  I kept thinking: He won’t die!  He cannot die! But he might have... he might now... 

     I cried into my pillow, torn with a fear I had never known. I stayed in my bedroom until I heard the sound of a car driving up the driveway.  It was too early; it was only ten o’clock.  

     When my parents came in to the house, I was already by their side, having met them in the driveway.  I was comforted by their presence.  I kept saying "But you came home? But you're okay."  For a moment I simply needed to know they were back.  However, after that moment and when we hugged, I saw it in their eyes. I knew he was dead.  I could feel it.  They were home too early, their eyes too dim.

***

     Maybe now is an odd time to share this... Maybe Death isn't something to be mentioned around the Holidays.  But for those of us who have lost, though we may not speak of it, the holiday's bring Death closest to our remembrance.  These are the times we are sharply aware of the missing presence at the table, the missing personality, and the traditions that have changed.

*All names changed for privacy 

Thanksgiving Giveaway

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     I am very excited to announce that for the next week I will be hosting a Giveaway!!

    Why? Because I want to share some of the things I am thankful for, and express my appreciation for you, my readers!  Having a blog is not that big of a deal.  Anyone and everyone could potentially have one.  However, the global interaction I have had makes it feel like something to me. 

     I am amazed that people I have never met read these words.  Last week I had over 100 views from the Ukraine alone.  I know nobody from the Ukraine.  Thus, that stat alone blows me away.  It amazes me to see that not only have I had views from India, but that India comes second for amount of views.  And not just a handful of views makes it second.  But 100's do.  I am continually amazed that I get views from places like France, Germany, Australia, China, Lebanon, Ireland, Spain, and Switzerland. 

     The fact that I have followers, and that others read what I say... that is something in my mind.  

     I want to thank you for that something!  So, go to my Instagram account @gossamerlens, or my GooglePlus account +TheDamsel to participate.  

     A winner will selected at random. They will be winning a shoutout on Instagram or GooglePlus (depending on which they posted), and a package including fall-ish cards, poem print, hot coco powder, a winter read, and an original piece of art done by a local artist I know!  Unfortunately I cannot ship outside of the U.S. at this stage in life.  However, don't let that deter you my global friends!  You can still win a postcard and shoutout on the social media account of your choice, and then a second U.S. winner will be selected to win the package. 

     The official instructions for entering can be found, on the accounts mentioned, on the post connected to the photo below: 

~The Official Thanksgiving Giveaway Photo~

     P.S.  A winner has been picked, and this giveaway has been wrapped up.  @lovely.noelany.mehndi can be found on Instagram.  She has inspired me with her lovely henna art, and sweet personality.  I am so happy she won!  I hope to further give thanks to other followers in the future.  Thank you to all who participated in the giveaway. Plus a huge thanks to those who participate by reading, commenting, liking, and sharing my work! 

Peace Flutters

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Peace Flutters

An illusion of obtainability

Just out of reach

Sometimes brushing my finger

But only in that fateful moment

Before something falls

I drown inside of myself 

Tears run

Wishing for something 

For peace

Poem 190 ~ 12/29/2013

     My soul reaches out to those in pain.  Those who have lost family, friends, or acquaintances.  Every turn of the earth clocks pain.  Humans forget to have humanity.   Pleasure is gained from hurt.  Hatred is confused with religious zealousness.  Fear of difference fuels violence. To those in France, I extend my heart to you.  I mourn with you.  To all the world, I cry for peace. 

     People can do such beautiful things.  How strange it sometimes feels to see the other side of the coin. 

     Why can we not have peace? Why can we not learn to respect differences and not hurt others because of them? When will we learn to treat others as ourselves?  How can me learn to all love? 

     No matter how much we wish... peace is an idea.  It is never a true and global reality.  The fact that so many strive for it is folly and beauty in itself.  We reach out hoping fingers to those in pain, to those who hurt others, to those who love, and those who hate.  We hope for the change that cannot be.  Yet, by doing so we make our own reality that much better.  We help those who we can touch.  Peace and love, no matter how delusional it may seem, is something worth reaching for.  For even though it may never rest upon the world all at once, we can create something worthwhile. 

     I drown in myself, for I mourn with those who mourn.  

     Let us mourn, hope and reach for peace... together. 

Rain Pummels

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I lean into the wind

Soaking in the feeling

I throw back my head

And simply breath

Rain

It pummels

Heart beating in time

Close my eyes

Feel the wind

Supporting me

Keeping me

Wind slanting rain

It goes with me

Mouth open 

Rain falls in

Feeling amazing

So sweet and clear

A smile appears

So I stand

Rain hits my head

Feeling like a hand

Stroking my pace

And I wish

It would never end

Poem 21 ~ 5/3/2011

Feeling Neverland

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     Colleges have begun to flood my email and snail mail with information about their programs. They send me explanations of why their program is "just right" for me.  Many of my good friends have already moved off to college, or to go on two year missions for our church. And as these two things align, I realize an ever growing fear.  A fear of growing up.

     I don't mean I have a fear of growing old.  Age is superfluous in my mind.  I don't fear my face being lined with wrinkles, nor my hands becoming blemished and shaking. What I fear is having to leave my childhood home, leaving friends for college, and forgetting to enjoy simple things because of responsibility.  To fear. It hurts. 

Anxiety runs like veins 

Like nerves 

Linked to brain 

To heart

Pushing to be known 

Running on it's own

Logic wishing to call

But the feeling coursing 

Love being twisted

To fear and ache

Happiness being turned

To withered leaves

Ready to fall

My heart

Yearns and calls

Into the chasm 

Of faith

And somewhere

The thread is tied

I hold 

Despite 

The pain of fear

The pain of anxious everything

Poem 214 ~ 3/18/2015

     I feel like Wendy Darling.  One foot in the nursery, and one out the door.  Stuck on the stories, playtime, and dreams of childhood.  Yet, working on gaining a career, living on my own, and attempting to become a thoughtful adult.  In some ways I am ready to move into the world. Still in others... I'm trying to find Neverland.

     The draw of stuck time pulls, but the reality of moving through life appeals.  I may feel Neverland wishing to be near.  But to grow up, that shall be my awfully big adventure. 

Making a Difference ~ Guest Post

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How do you want to make a difference?

Here is what _CarvedWords_ believes you should be working on to make a difference: 

     One way or another, we all wish that we're able to make a difference in this world even by a bit if it is possible to us. There are loads of everyday things I'd like to change if it were possible for me. 

     Education has limited itself to textbooks and syllabus. Students are only taught to solve the equations and write answers as they are expected in the examinations. Students can be seen getting good marks with grades higher then expected. They can answer all the questions which relate to the textbook. But what about what's outside? What's actually going on in the real world? The more they indulge themselves into the textbooks, the more their creativity gets limited. 

     Education is meant to make learners. Not to destroy the artist within them. We can spot students conquering heights of success, but with that seems to come a low creativity. At the end of the day, a person won't be proud of the position he has in a multinational company. All he would need is creativity to fill his life with enthusiasm and joy. Education should bring out an artist in a student, because every student has got one talent or another. Teachers should encourage the talent within them. Students should be taught to be passionate towards their goals. 

     I don't blame the system as a whole, neither do I have any offense with the knowledge and the quality of it the education is providing students. I just wanna say that even after these efforts there still remains a huge gap gap between education and creativity. We as a society have our responsibility towards making the change that is needed. We've got to do something to reduce this gap, we gotta build a strong bridge between both education and creativity. 

     If I could make a difference, I would like people to change their mindset towards education, making it free from all the chains it has been tied to. Creating a strong bond between education and creativity. Giving this world creative minds rather than those with high IQ's. Making this world colorful, making it a better place. 

~~~

This is how Words_In_Air thinks you can make a difference: 

     The language of love. Make wide spaces in your heart. Life gets so chocked up, kindness so lost, love slips by unseen. Smile at a stranger, help an old lady carry her shopping, offer to cook a meal for someone who's sick. Volunteer at your local church, hospice, old age home, or orphanage. Read to someone who's disabled. It's good to donate something to a worthy cause, but what people crave is human interaction. Look into their eyes, listen with attention to their stories. Take an interest in their personal lives. That smelly beggar down the road? He just wants kindness from you. Ask him his name, give him a compliment, bless him with a pair of shoes, or something to eat and drink. You don't have to strike a conversation with everyone you meet, but the next time you are waiting in line, greet someone and smile. Buy a small chocolate for the checkout girl and bless her. 
It's the little things! 

     If you bless others, you yourself will be blessed. 

Make A Difference Contest & Giveaway

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Let's work together to celebrate National Make a Difference Day this weekend! 

TO ENTER: 

     ~Write up to 150 words that you think can make a difference and are worth sharing. 

     ~Choose if you want to submit via Instagram or GooglePlus. 
          If submitting via Instagram: Screenshot the official contest picture on my Instagram, tag @gossamerlens in the caption, and use the hashtags #NationalMakeADifferenceDay & #GossamerLens
          If submitting by GooglePlus: Screenshot the official contest picture on my GooglePlus, tag +TheDamsel in your post, and use the hashtags mentioned above. 

     ~Submit by: 12 Noon (EST), on October the 23rd. 

WINNINGS: 

     ~I will be picking my favorite 2 entries (depending on the amount of participation) to share this Saturday on Instagram and GooglePlus. Also, the top entries will be posted here on my blog (link in bio).*

     ~PLUS, every entrant will have their name put into a random drawing. A Happiness Quote Book, 1 Zentangle print, candy peach rings, and an Original Poem will be on the line. 

DEADLINE: 

     ~12 Noon (EST), on October the 23rd. 

     *If you win publication, all rights will remain yours and you will be acknowledged on Instagram, GooglePlus, and my blog Gossamer Lens

Yellowing Pages

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Sitting here writing

Wisps of image

Shrouded shadow

Of Imagined future

Passed before me

Danced like film

Across my vision

The cold

It touched my shoulder

The sounds

They faded away

Like yellowing pages

And I saw your face

As it could be

Your arm over

Around my shoulders

The whisper 

Of those words

The ones I love

To hear you say

Then it crumpled 

Like falling dough

The bread collapsed

And I was chewing 

On nothing

Poem 105 ~ 4/10/2013

     Memories, feelings, and thoughts diminish over time.  What once was often changes.  Sometimes, looking over older poems the emotions I wrote feel like a lie.  As the writer, I know what each poem was born through.  However, just because the adoration, pain, or perspective has passed as I've grown... that doesn't negate the validity of writing.  Every poem has helped me realize, handle, and come to grips with what I have felt.  At the moment of creation, each poem has filled it's purpose.  

     I have grown, I have changed.  I continue to feel, and I must accept the moving on that is life.  You cannot cling on to who you have been, or who you were.  Later it may feel like you chewed on nothing.  But at the time, that "nothing" felt like something.  Poetry is a way to express my now, and reflect on the past.  

     "I am a slave to emotion... Pens... Keep working... Until I need you no more... which will be when I stop feeling" 

                    Poem 106 ~ 4/11/13

To Feel My Love

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You say

My cheeks

Are beautiful

These ones

I contour

And hate

Trace my jawline

With your kisses

Hold my hips

Breathe my air

Hold me

Like poetry

Love me

Like warmth

You are the first

I can see forever

Despite the chasm

Of unknown

I'm afraid of falling

But it almost

Looks appealing

And my heart is breaking

But my breath is leaving

Oh Gosh

These feels

Poem 234