Content: pain

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I am very hesitant to post this one. When it comes to older pieces, when you used to vomit up, as a younger self, everything that marks you, and then you begin re-visiting them, choosing pieces of merit can be hard. Harder still when they expose something so grossly painful and personal that relating it in a way that is meaningful, or that has value as far as sharing meaning with the world, can be extremely difficult. Some stink of tawdry melodrama, or schmaltz in a fashion that resists excavation and apt expression. Pretty tough judging which pieces deserve or require the light of day (as it were). I am really uncertain about this one, so please let me know if you think it inappropriate for public venue, if you would. Thank you

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PTSD is a lingering condition that springs from trauma, and no matter how much has changed, or time passed, it just doesn't want to really heal. There are days when I feel like superwoman, having overcome the hardest lessons of my life, and others, when I feel as broken as a junkyard tricycle. On those days, the simplest social interactions are as difficult as mountain climbing, complicated by the fact that I feel compelled to hide this fact. Those days bring shame, self-disgust, impatience with my frailties, and a host of other pointless, unwelcome mind enemies. Here is a tiny fragment of that unhappy condition as I experience it.

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This little piece is about accepting the people you love... warts and all. Tear it up please:)

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This has a numbing affect. Let me know what you think . . . Humbly, Radley

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I'm just practicing my writing here. But with all the tornados that have hit Missouri and other regions in the past few years, I think this is a story worth telling . . .

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What one feels like once they realize they have been betrayed

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Work-in-progress.

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I read poetry, poetic criticism and biographies of poets quite regularly. And it seems I might be lacking some of the "street cred" that many of the great poets earned during their childhood years. My pain, anguish and sad experiences came along later in life. Last week I was sitting near the river, enjoying a refreshing beverage or two, when this poem came to my mind. Comments are welcome.

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INSOMNIA MOSTLY... sometimes we unwittingly allow ourselves to become vulnerable by the words of others and it can dredge up old wounds... Having said that, insomnia also plays a role so no pity party for my entering a ring of discussion and opinions.. Not a child but ... these words were born and that is what I do, take the crap and write a poem.. good or bad! I have a hunch more than myself have had a night or two like this

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One decision, though made in love, has consequences that reverberate throughout multiple lives.

Feedback desired: The usual nits, plot holes, etc., but I'm most interested in knowing if the POV shifts work or not - especially for chapter one.

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Love knows no boundaries.

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This poem was inspired by a recent tragedy that happened to a friend of my daughter's. She and her son were on their way to the hospital to find out the sex of her unborn child when they were involved in a terrible car accident. She and her son lived, but she lost the baby, a little girl she had prayed for. Little Nadia Claire died in utero from the impact of the air bag.

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Just a bit of verse about the aggravation of writing

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This is a memoir of my daughter's death and the communications we've had since her death. Since it is a true story, I want to know if it's readable and interesting.

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Correne Johnson, 18, is all the things most women never want to be: Overweight, illiterate and unloved. And she is being molested by her Aunts fiance. She uses her addiction to the Oprah Winfrey show and Oprah's TV wisdom's to challenge her Oppressor. These actions could either end her life or save her.

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A Tale of the Loved.

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A simple quick gathering of thoughts and flowing words. That's it folks! Any and all feedback.

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This work is a response to "Why God?". A poem in which a young widow, with a child who's husband was killed in Iraq, challenges God and bares her soul. It is important to read "Why God?" first, to put this response into context. By no means does the author attempt any more than consolidating answers throughout history to mankind's tragedies.

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How I spent my summer

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my first cousin died recently of a drug overdose. This poem is how I dealt with the grief. I am interested in how the style is perceived as this is a comfortable writing style for me. This is the first time I have posted work on this forum and I am grateful for the reviews. I am grateful for the editing comments by kiwi & ulli as I have incorporated them into my piece. My first time listening to constructive editing advice. There maybe hope for me yet. To you other kind people, thanks for your comments. I will be sharing this poem at a family reunion today. Hopefully it will bring perspective & healing... po

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Its all about this Shadow King.. something like a vampire or similar dark being. He's not ashamed of what or who he is. I do have other dark pieces as well. I consider this a lighter writing as I have written far more visceral imagery in the past.

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Flowing Pencil's poem that she pulled from her "archives" inspired me to share a really old poem of mine, from way back when first decided to pick up a pen and give poetry-writing a try. Don't laugh-- I liked the "flowers and candy" approach back then. :)

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This song is dedicated to my recently deceased mother. I wrote it as a testament of my grief and despair. I plan to rewrite this as a traditionally metered ballad some day. As usual, ANY and ALL feedback is appreciated and desired, so please take a bit more time and review while you view.

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I am not a poet at all, but one of my characters is. He has a large role in book 2 and book 3. At the time in his life where he writes this poem, he is an abolute mess. His family was murdered, and he was beaten nearly to death. Before the tragedym he was a quiet gentle hearted artist, who wrote and sang songs for children in his spare time. Now he's unstable and a ittle psychotic.------------------- Feel free to rewrite the poem if you'd like, as long as all his thoughts stay in it. I'm not talented enough to pull off poetry, and I want him to sound talented.

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Walking on my way to lunch one sunny day, I look down at my feet and suffer an experience that leaves me filled with glorious joy and wrenching pain and realize I have an amazingly ability I'd suppressed all these years, because of Ma...

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Anything a'tall....

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I pulled this one up from obscurity among post at my own web community. It was written in the way of a rambling, musing rant. I've pulled it up a few times, didn't feel the urg to work on it, let it slide back down to the bottom of the heap... but yesterday seemed just right to pull it up and polish it. Tell me what y'all think of the first attempt.

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I don't know how to do this without giving too much away. A man loses everything, including his faith in God. His sister is there, never waning, to help him. His life changes and if you believe him...so could yours. There, how's that for a hook.

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I simply can't be blamed for this more or less, completely true story. This one is for Nick. Thanks!

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loving narcissists can be tricky, not easy to keep their attention, too much competition-- After Sabrina Dalton's suggestions, I modified some of the images in this poem. Very useful suggestions.

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A short piece from a part of my life that no-one knew about, and still don't. I was always the perfectly happy child and friend. I would like to add that although when i wrote this i hadn't cut again for years, the urge is always there when i get down and after a severely depressing start to the year 2008 i unfortunately do have two scars that are visible in on my left upper wrist. It is something i only feel when depressed, which i am over now and it is part of the reason i would like to become a psychologist. To be able to help people that are going through things that make them feel this way. This is a rough piece i have barely edited. This was inspired by a book i read at the time, which was a story of a lady with bipolar disorder and cut herself often to the point of hospitalisation. I felt the need to write my first experience down.

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