Poetry

Facing her fears, living her nightmares…

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Waking up on thin ice,
She tiptoes across the frozen lake of her fears
Hoping to make it safely to the other side.

She can’t swim so prays earnestly for guidance,
And with her final utterance
The ice cracks and she disappears.

Is this her deliverance or her demise?
In the depths of icy water a voice says,
“Face your fears.  It’s  the only path to safety.”

Her discovery is liberating.
She surfaces from the depths of darkness,
Takes a deep breath and dips back under the ice.

She’ll make it to shore or die trying.
Determined, she presses on imperfectly,
Not looking back, swimming with all her might.

She breaks through the shallows.
She’s tired now, resting her wary head.
The fear drips off her; she shivers.

Perhaps sleep will stay a while this time.
It’s the only escape from her fears.
But as she dozes, there’s a distant rustling.

Sleep is close but it won’t come to her.
It teases and torments her — a cruel joke.
This is the nightmare of her life…


Contents written: July 16 2016  |  Originally published: July 17 2016  |  Copyright © 2016 Moylom Enterprises


Poetry

On the edge

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This stress has to be worth something!
This frustration has to even out some how.
I’m afraid to hope
But I’d like to believe
I’m on a journey which is currently on
The edge of something wonderful.

 


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Image source: Google images
Contents compiled: March 13 2017
Originally published: March 14 2017
Copyright © 2016 Inner Ramblings Boulevard


Poetry, single parenting

Constantly toiling…

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Quote from “Shakespeare’s Sonnets” by William Shakespeare –

“Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,
The dear respose for limbs with travel tir’d;
But then begins a journey in my head
To work my mind, when body’s work’s expired: For then my thoughts—from far where I abide— Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,
And keep my drooping eyelids open wide, Looking on darkness which the blind do see: Save that my soul’s imaginary sight
Presents thy shadow to my sightless view, Which, like a jewel (hung in ghastly night, Makes black night beauteous, and her old face new.
Lo! thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind, For thee, and for myself, no quiet find.”

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Image source: Google images
Contents compiled: September 18 2016
Originally published: September 21 2016
Copyright © 2016 Moylom Enterprises


Poetry, Uncategorized

Overwhelmed…

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Tired woman equals emotional mom.
Tired woman equals angry mom.
Tired woman equals quiet mom.
Tired woman equals overwhelmed mom.

She won’t stop getting in trouble.
She won’t stop asking a million questions.
She won’t stop asking me for her things.
She won’t stop pushing my buttons.

Trying to keep order in all this chaos.
Trying to make decisions for three lives.
Trying to maintain my composure.
Trying to make sense of it all but can’t.

Hoping I’m doing the right thing.
Hoping this promise of a better future is real.
Hoping my plans are what God wants for me.
Hoping my fears will not consume me.

Perhaps she senses my fear.
Perhaps she doesn’t understand the chaos.
Perhaps she is trying to make sense of it too.
Perhaps she simply needs me to hold her.

We’ll be ok, she and I.
We’ll find a way to keep what we have left.
We’ll be ok all three of us.
We’ll find a way to save our little family.

 

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Image source: Google images
Contents written: September 15 2016
Originally published: September 15 2016
Copyright © 2016 Moylom Enterprises