I’m in a holding cell of emotions
stripped raw and confused
not knowing what is good for me
while I sit here, soul abused
by needs unmet, though I know not
what they are –
by unanswered screams that deeply cut
leaving nothing but pain and scars
When my 7-year-old son asked his father today
what the Museum of Tolerance was,
“It’s a scary place, son. And creepy, too,”
he replied with barely a second’s pause.
“You’ve never even been there,” I told him,
“You have no idea what you’re saying.
For even though history may at times be scary and creepy,
there are events in the world we can’t bear repeating.”
“He needs to know what happened,
we can’t allow the guilty wipe the slate clean.
He needs to know everything he can about tolerance,
its meaning, its virtues, and the world that could have been
if only people stopped being hateful,
ignorant, and full of prejudice,
for our son needs to know that now,
before someone else tells him for us.
For history is now being rewritten,
and we cannot let them wipe the bloodied slate clean
We need to remember and never forget
all the things that happened, every ounce of hatred felt and seen.
It’s difficult to breathe some days
when all you see are walls going up
isolating you from everything you hold dear –
freedom, the truth…
there’s nothing left to hold the lies back
but the will to keep on fighting
even as the walls start closing in
till you’re left with nothing but flimsy hope
just before your world grows dim
what’s the world coming to?
what’s happening to everything we worked for?
every freedom we thought we had, eroded
right after precious right,
can we truly take any more?
when the few are blinded by greed
and power and scorn
the walls are rising, closing in…
and, in fear, the world is reborn
“Let’s look at the ocean, mom,”
my little one says
as he takes a seat on the pavement
and looks up ahead
where I see more than just the ocean
but the harbor I call home,
“It’s beautiful, mom. Isn’t it?”
And I smile and say, “yes, my love,”
my dear heart now all grown.
She’s in a loveless marriage
she knew it from the start
but she needed the security and so
she traded away her heart
till the end of her days,
she’ll live the lie
until her soul awakes and kisses
her “perfect” life goodbye.
It started out with a song, one that planted a seed inside me,
asking the same old question, “Are you really happy?”
Then, “what if you aren’t, what then will you do?
Will you get up and leave all this behind? Will you? Should you?”
And so the seed grew, and kept growing until the day came
when the answers found their questions. And this time, there was no shame,
from the first word on the page to the last, from the wine, and the gun – but not her past,
I was her and she was me; guess all this was meant to be
all because of a song,
one that woke me up to what was wrong
I need a different kind of love, it’s true
I need to fall in love with me again, not you.
via Discover Challenge: Song
I actually attribute Different Kind of Love by Brendan James as the inspiration for my latest novel, Everything She Ever Wanted, for which he gave me permission to use the lyrics in my book, but it’s actually this one: Nothing For Granted, that started the ball rolling. The lyrics are just absolutely life-changing.
As Liz Durano, I write contemporary romance and women’s fiction and my latest book, Everything She Ever Wanted (A Different Kind of Love Novel) is now available from Amazon, iBooks, Barnes & Noble, and Kobo.
they say she’s cold,
too lost in her past
one that’s filled with darkness
one that’s meant to last
forever if she lets it
letting it eat her from the inside
like the fires of passion burning
leaving her no place to hide
and so she writes out the demons
teasing them with flowery words
letting her fiery passions rage
in an eternal purge
via Daily Prompt: Passionate
Sometimes life can feel
like a slog,
all work and no play making me
feel like a cog in someone else’s wheel,
leaving me spent and hollow,
until life just stops, and too late,
I”ve run out of tomorrows.
via Slog — The Daily Post
She takes her time lazily,
lying prone on her bed
elbows propped, reading her book,
letting the scenes glide in her head
in and out they go,
like waves lapping the shore
recharging her from the week’s craziness
until she’s done with one adventure,
already ready for more.
via Recharge — The Daily Post