Love. Peace. Hate. War.

Love

Peace

Hate

War

My blood

My familiarity

Rock N Roll

Heaven and Angel

Visions

Of growth

And wisdom

Sounds

Of happiness

And laughter

Healing the sadness

And sobbing

Unwanted interference

Bawling words

Of worry

Protecting the path

Of unsound doom

Anger shielding

Possible truth

Storming off

Vexed

With doubt

And a whirlwind

Of lucidity

From outspoken truth

You are

My strength

Admiration

Weakness

And flare

Together our lives

Are intertwined

With fucking emotion

Sweetness

Beauty

Shatter

And ugly

We each salute

For our love

And peace

And wait

By the wings

For hate

And war

United

We stand

Without prospect

Of fracture

We are a tribe

Of essence

We are our family

Dawn Piecham

Dawn is a native of Somerville, Mass. and has earned a bachelors degree in nursing and is currently working on her masters degree in nursing. A natural born caregiver, Dawn is a loving wife and mother of three boys with another on the way! She is proud to be able to say that she simply adores her family. While all of this is very apparent to those who know her, Dawn has been hiding the fact that she is an incredibly talented writer from us for years! We are so happy to welcome Dawn to our ever-growing Storytellers family. 

For Our Writers & Readers

Hi Everyone!

I have been feeling compelled to post something on Storytellers for a long time for the simple reason that I miss it.

I miss the supportive atmosphere that surrounded our writers, all of us commenting, liking and sharing each other's work along with our readers, but that brings me to what I want to write about.

I get all my really good ideas in the shower, and if you ask another writer, I bet they will say the same. Well last night, I stepped out of the shower with absolutely no ideas to the point where when I noticed the Q-Tips out of the corner of my eye, at first I thought, Hmmm...should I write a horror story where the cotton swabs awaken in the middle of the night, grow legs and stab people in their eardrums? No, no I shouldn't. 

And that completely dumb internal dialog led me to think about our other writers. See, part of my problem right now is that I am in between getting one novel ready to be released and about a quarter of the way through writing a second one.

But I know when I first started working on my own blog after years of not writing, coming up with ways to get my ideas on "paper" seemed not only impossible, but also absolutely terrifying.

There were times when I felt like I was going to puke after hitting the publish button. There were times when I thought that everyone would hate what I wrote, and maybe some did. In fact, I know some did. I have a very dark sense of humor and strong opinions. Not everyone is going to like that, and that's okay. I know lots of others did like it. It's all a part of the game.

Thing is, the more you do it, the more confident you get, the less of a fuck you give, and I can promise you that your writing abilities will only improve.

Please know that not everyone who really does like your work is going to "like" it on social media.

To our readers, please remember that a simple like, share or comment on a post you genuinely did enjoy give our writers, especially our newcomers, one of the best feelings in the world. It's kind of like the street performer whose hat you throw some change into. If our writer's words entertained you for just a little while, it's not a high price to pay.

So to our current and future writers, if you have a story in you, let it out on here and I promise that you will be supported by our Collective.


To our many readers who do all of the above, we all thank you so, so much!


Much love,
Melissa

La Pura Vida

In the spring of 2006 I set off on a journey with a dear friend of mine.

It was one of those “take a time-out from your life” kind of adventures and I was in desperate need of it. You see, at this point my life was a constant state of Chaos, and I was over it. So I decided that I was going to allow myself to hit the coveted snooze button and go on a treasure hunt for that shiny gem known as Clarity.

Our plane touched down, we de-boarded and there we were…Paradise had been found! We made it to the lush, tropical, untouched purity of Costa Rica.

I could feel a shift as soon as my feet landed on the tarmac. I shed some layers of clothing (it was cooking hot) and though I didn’t know it yet, I also shed some of those pesky inhibitions that were cramping my Spirit’s style.

The first few days were spent lounging, reading, swimming, sunning and detoxing the stressors I left at home.  The cotton candy sunsets, bold iguanas and opinionated howler monkeys took residence where the sights and sounds of city living once did.

Before I knew it relaxation had set in and running in tandem with it was the weekend.

My girlfriend and I decided to head out on the “town”. Now, by “town” I mean tiny little surf town on the edge of the Costa Rican jungle, of which you navigate by dirt roads and big smiles.

It was this night, in this town, backlit by stardust that I never knew to exist, that I met him.

Our paths crossed in a manner that only makes sense if you never question it. We fell into a state of normalcy that would historically have taken me aback. Lucky for me, I had just excavated a state of mind akin to blissful relaxation, so I decided to be Zen and just roll with it.

My mantra was something along the lines of “Tara, be Zen, roll with it, don’t question how or why....oh, and be sure to call the airlines and extend your stay”.

(FYI:  My mantra was a success.)

It was a whirlwind romance that made all the sense in the world. The only issue was…I was a world away from home.  

My last morning in Costa Rica pulled back the tropical blanket of my hiding spot.  My two worlds were now colliding.

He drove me back to my neglected hotel (and forgiving best friend) before the sun began to rise. We parked out front sharing a very long and hesitant farewell, filled with pleas and wishes by both of us that I could stay longer (maybe forever). But home and the chattering list of life obligations began to trickle into my Zen. The only words that found their way to my voice were the ones that said I couldn’t stay. I wanted to stay…but I couldn’t.

My heart and my soul slumped their shoulders in defeat. They were ambassadors of Paradise.

Before I could let him change my mind, I kissed him one last time, hopped out of the truck and bolted toward my room without daring myself to look back.

I flung the door open and my girlfriend greeted me with a look of shock and the following words: “I can NOT believe you are coming home!”.

My response was: “I can’t believe it either”.

I packed my bag in a fury. Within minutes there was a knock at the door. My heart jumped, my soul squealed in delight. I looked at my friend and said: “It looks like I’m staying after all!”.

I whipped the door open, ready to proclaim "Ok, I'm staying!" but it wasn’t him with one last request, it was our driver letting us know he was ready to begin our long journey back to the airport where this whole adventure began. 

I tucked my regret into one of my pockets, tossed our bags in the car, gave our surroundings one last look and crawled into the backseat. As I sank into my seat and closed my eyes, I did my best to reassure myself I was making the right, rational choice. Soon, the gentle rocking of driving on unpaved roads had me drifting off to sleep.

It wasn’t long into the drive that I could feel the car begin to slow and then come to a stop. I slowly opened my eyes. The dirt roads illuminated by the rising sun created a magical, dusty curtain over the countryside. I whispered to my girlfriend asking her why we stopped. Her eyes widened and she told me to look ahead, through the windshield.

That’s when I saw him.

Standing there, in the middle of the road, was a white horse so grand, so pure, so dreamlike I could hardly believe it to be true. He stood there, looking at us, unafraid, unwavering and beautiful beyond words.

My girlfriend turned to me, she held my hand and she said: “Tara, what do you think he’s saying to you?”.

I would love to tell you I listened to his message that day, turned around, drove back to my love and stayed in that little casita on the edge of the Costa Rican jungle forevermore…but I can’t.

Instead, what I can tell you is that I did, in fact, find the clarity I was searching for on that adventure in Paradise. I can tell you, with certainty, that I was forever changed. I can tell you that I married this man, barefoot with flowers in my hair, in a tiny chapel on an orchard with trees dripping in twinkle lights.  I can also tell you that I believe in magical white horses who are messengers and reminders of the life you are meant to live.

La Pura Vida was first published on 12 Months of Lent.

Tara Mazzeo Jackson

Co-Founder of Storytellers:  The Collective, 

Curator for Bohemian Living, Owner/Artist of Bungalow Wilde 

and Blogger at Bits & Pieces.

Tara is a lover of yoga, bleeder of words and a bohemian city-kid who has a knack for rescuing stray animals.  

She has a mean case of wanderlust and you’d be hard pressed to find her without these things:

a journal in her bag, a camera in-hand and sun kissed shoulders.

Tara writes from experience, pain, truth, triumph and that place, 

deep down, where the words simmer in emotion.

Grieving 101: The Emotional Marathon

“I can't be running back and fourth forever between grief and high delight.” 

― J.D. Salinger 

But I do.

It's exhausting, really.  It's something along the lines of an emotional marathon.  One that I find myself running every few years, against my will and against my wishes. 

Now, I've never run a real marathon before, however, this emotional marathoning isn't for the weak of heart either, that's for sure!  Each miserable stride burns more than the next breath.  You wonder how the hell you're going to get through this.  All those miles ahead, one thumping foot in front of the other.  Then, something happens along the way and everything quiets down for a moment when you realize... everything has gone numb.  You can't feel a damn thing!  Your reaction:  Hallelujah!  This respite allows you to coast for a spell.  Who cares if you can't feel anything.  Feeling, especially at times like these, is over-fucking-rated. This is your Menthol Mile, baby, and you better enjoy it.  Because slowly and then all at once the burn breaks through again and you'll be leaving a trail of smoke behind you for all the wrong reasons. In time, you'll stop screaming "holy hellfire" and simply accept the flames.  They are, some say, what make you or break you.

I don't know.  Sometimes I think "What the fuck?".  Sometimes I simply can't believe it all and I stand there wonderstruck, in the least magical way possible.  Every so often a wave of peace washes over me and I realize it's all ok, all of it, even the parts that aren't ok, if that makes any sense.

My thoughts ride a wicked pendulum.  They whip from side to side, up and down, from here to there, now to then and back again a million times in the blink of an eye.  Sounds fun, right? Yeah, just about as fun as that clown in Stephen King's "It" (insert shivers here please).  

It turns out my circumstances have demanded that I get good and clear on what I believe in….and I mean what I TRULY believe in.  As in...what is all of this heartbreaking, beautiful, chaotic, exotic, full blown insanity worth in the midst - and in the end - of it all?

My belief system, I've learned, is made up of the following:  Love, the amazing, true kind of love that makes all this shit worth while.  Heaven.  Family.  Life, this one beautiful life.  Friendship.  Forgiveness, regardless of what a battle it is to achieve it.  Impact, the kind you make and the kind that's made on you.  Karma, what you give, you get.  Peace, the sacred hunt for it.   And honesty.

It's my 3rd Emotional Marathon in 8 years.  

Although you'd think I'd be a frontrunner with all this "experience" the truth is, right now, I'm just pacing myself to get to the finish line without shitting my pants.

Tara Mazzeo Jackson

Co-Founder of Storytellers:  The Collective, 

Curator for Bohemian Living, Owner/Artist of Bungalow Wilde 

and Blogger at Bits & Pieces.

Tara is a lover of yoga, bleeder of words and a bohemian city-kid who has a knack for rescuing stray animals.  

She has a mean case of wanderlust and you’d be hard pressed to find her without these things:

a journal in her bag, a camera in-hand and sun kissed shoulders.

Tara writes from experience, pain, truth, triumph and that place, 

deep down, where the words simmer in emotion.

Coping Superstar

This is the story of a coping superstar that most of us know and love.

I guess I should begin with the definition of what a coping superstar is. A coping superstar is a person who has come to terms with the fact that time does not heal all wounds. It does not ease grief and does not ease pain. The suffering never truly goes away but learning how to live, despite the weight you carry, is what makes you shine. 

Our superstar has experienced loss on a level that no one should ever have to feel. Yet, I need to sneak this post in and publish it right away because there's a good chance she will hop on. She is the one who keeps up with our submissions, entering them, editing them, everything, So, I'm worried she may find this first thing tomorrow at a time in life when the rest of us would be in bed, unable to move, unable to deal. 

When she's not entering other people's pieces, she's either editing my piece of shit submissions or she's pouring her heart out. We all read her posts. We take in the strings of words she ties together that make you want to cry or make your heart drop or both. It's because she writes to cope, not to pass time.

The concept of a coping superstar came about when I posted something about my cousin who passed away and about how time had not helped but you learn to live with the loss. When she commented, she called us both coping superstars. That one comment, from the person who embodied what it meant to be a coping superstar, gave me a whole new and higher understanding of how life works. 

So, while I haven't been able to come up with a solid piece for this blog in months (due to my very often trips into fiction land) a story that needed to be told was sitting there, right under my nose. The story of a girl from what was once a pretty gross city who now resides in a beautiful paradise with the love of her husband, friends and pets surrounding her. 

She is an artist who creates kickass coasters, bungalow wilde jewelry and countless other creative projects. She is an incredible yogini who will be the best instructor ever some day. She breathed creative life back into me that has now given me the confidence to write a new book after my first was turned down. I had thrown that dream out of the proverbial window and she threw it back in. She has changed my life and I know I'm not the only one who can say that.

She is unlike anyone I have ever met. She is living to tell her own tales of both loss and love, grief and survival, wounds and healing. The story of a girl who, through her art of all mediums and never-ending kindness is teaching us all what real strength is.

We are all so lucky to have a modern day princess. The type of princess that when she sings animals flock to her side. (I'm not kidding, I pretty sure that does actually happen.) One that possess all things good and believes in unicorns. She is stunning, gracious and loved by all. Despite her hardships, she perseveres. She is the kind of princess who will have her happily ever after because she is a coping superstar. 

Melissa wears many hats. Some are super colorful and some are dark just like her stories. She is a mother, a friend, a writer, a survivor, a warrior, a yogi, a listener, a talker and a lover of all things art. 

Can Buy Me Love

I saw several old friends this weekend and when I mentioned the fact that I'm a yoga nazi many asked if I was going to teach. I gave half-assed responses like, "No, but I would like to." I stopped short at the reason why I'm not doing the teacher training. I simply didn't want to admit I was broke. Pathetic but true.

I have no problem admitting any of my other faults but this one is very hard to reveal to friends, never mind on this blog. But I'm doing so because I know there are others out there who can not do what they truly love because they can't afford to do so. Luckily for the truly disadvantaged (not me at all, I'm broke but have everything and more than I need) have scholarships now. But still, so many are stuck in dead end jobs or don't have one and it all boils down to money, sadly.

I took for granted that my parents were able to pay for my college education but at my age, there is no room for asking them for the $3,000 it costs. I know they would be willing to help me with childcare but I can't ask for anything more than that. Childcare alone is a lot to ask. If I only knew back in 1999 what I know now, I could have saved them a lot of money and me a lot of time.

A friend of mine suggested setting up a Go Fund Me page but I can't bring myself to do it. I feel like those should be reserved for cancer patients and the poor, not us middle of the road people who have issues but not problems. I won't beg for it. Then, there I go, having lower middle class guilt about how much better I have it than other people. It's yet another tight rope I feel I'm walking across right now; balancing the awareness of others struggles while still putting value on my own.

Maybe it's a New England-er thing too. Nothing bothers me more than admitting I need help. I once went to a store and my card wasn't going through so the employee said I could just pay the three dollars the next time I came in. Well, I immediately went to the ATM and got the money out to give him and went back. It was a huge pain in the butt but I couldn't help it. I knew that when I got home I would feel like crap OVER THREE DOLLARS. It's pretty stupid. Most of the people I know are the same way. It's just our mentality.

So when I was cleaning my house with my music pumping through my ear buds, "Can't Buy Me Love" came on and I said to myself, "No The Beatles. You are wrong." Because yoga is what I love and if I want to spread the love, then I need to buy it. I've been practicing off and on since 1996 and would make a pretty bad ass instructor (or guide as I would call myself) so while you can't buy me romantic love, you can definitely buy this kind. Keep your fingers crossed for me that I will remember to buy a lottery ticket (I always forget) and win. Until then I will be singing;

"I care way too much for money, Money can buy me love. Can buy me laa-ove. America tells me so."

Melissa Sue Vieira

Co-Founder of Storytellers:  The Collective

Melissa wears many hats.  
Some are super colorful and some are dark, just like her stories.  

She is a mother, friend, writer, survivor, warrior, yogi, listener, talker 
and a lover of all things art.

Trail of Turquoise

My best friend introduced me to the white sands, swaying palm trees and turquoise waters of Florida when I was 13 years old.

It was on a sweltering August day that my plane touched down with a thud.  I unbuckled my seatbelt and thought to myself "I made it!".  It's all I could do not to clap my hands and shout in glee, like the child I was trying so desperately not to be. 

As passengers began to spring to life, I stuffed my camera filled with prized images of clouds (it was my first flight, give a kid a break) into my carry-on and with all the strength my tiny frame and oversized ego could muster, dragged my loot toward the exit.

After being collected by my best friend's family at baggage claim, we made our way outside.  It was within a few steps and one upward glance that I was greeted by two things I had been anticipating for some time: The majestic sight of my very first palm tree and the wall of humidity I thought I might have to scale in order to get to the parking lot.

For that moment, I stood there, giddy with excitement and without doubt, head-over-heels in teenage love.

As my years and story unfolded, my love affair with Florida never faded. There was no doubt that Florida and I were in a long-term, long-distance relationship.  No matter where my wanderlust had taken me, I always found a way to make it back.  My time was split, a weekend here, a week there, always pining for the next visit. Always flirting with the idea of moving there "next". 

The Universe, as always, has an amazing way of working things out because somehow, some way "next" happened.  

Just a few short years ago I found myself in the position I had been eagerly awaiting.  I no longer had to rendezvous with my sweetheart.  It was time to commit.  

As a recovering commitment-phobe, I'm happy to report that I'm still swooning.  I mean, how could I possibly resist the year-round smell of dewy grass in the morning, the pure delight of looking up at the swaying palms as they dance and the overwhelming gratitude I feel while gazing out at the turquoise waters with as much awe and with as much love as when I first saw this place through sparkling teenage eyes?

You might be wondering what the moral of all this is, right?  What's the story?  What's the parting note? Well, that's an easy one...

True love lives and true love lasts, friends.  Don't let anyone tell you differently.

:: Always from under the same sky ::

Tara

Tara Mazzeo Jackson

Co-Founder of Storytellers:  The Collective, 

Curator for Bohemian Living, Owner/Artist of Bungalow Wilde 

and Blogger at Bits & Pieces.

Tara is a lover of yoga, bleeder of words and a bohemian city-kid who has a knack for rescuing stray animals.  

She has a mean case of wanderlust and you’d be hard pressed to find her without these things:

a journal in her bag, a camera in-hand and sun kissed shoulders.

Tara writes from experience, pain, truth, triumph and that place, 

deep down, where the words simmer in emotion.

Little Pieces

There are little pieces of you.
Everywhere.
I see these pieces and I want to cry
All the time
I hear these pieces speak to me
Loudly
My heart thumps for you
Forever
We will be connected

Regardless of love
Regardless of time
Regardless of health
Regardless of life

There are little pieces of fate
Here
Our destiny whispers
Lightly
My body shimmers with light
Always
I will feel you

Regardless of love
Regardless of time
Regardless of health
Regardless of life

These little pieces of you

Will never truly be mine

Anonymous

Real Fear

Anyone who knows me knows I am a huge horror movie buff and lover of all things Steven King. I once stayed up all night, completely alone because I couldn't put down "The Shining." What kept me reading was what I thought was real fear. The images of a topiary coming to life (and yes, when properly described bushes trimmed to look like rabbits and lions are indeed piss-your-pants because you don't want to get out of bed because you're so scared type of scary) freaked me out so much, I thought what I was feeling was true terror. It wasn't, at all.

I've been lucky, in that, I've never completely feared for my life. I've had a relatively safe existence up until today. But today...today was worse than fearing for my own life, I was afraid for my daughter's. The image of her face, red from forehead to neck and tear stained, was one of a child who thought they might die and with good reason.

We were on a two lane highway and I was in the right lane. Unbeknownst to me there is a girl texting next to me in the left lane. Here comes a tractor trailer pulling onto the highway without slowing down. I can see he's not going to merge on so I try to move to the left. Phone girl is oblivious of my attempts to get away from the oblivious truck driver.

My eyes start darting everywhere. I was screaming "LET ME THE FUCK IN," as if she could hear me.The second I finish the sentence I hear Morgan screaming, I turn and she's trying to get her seat belt off to go to the other side of the car. For one instant, I saw the cab of the huge truck going 60 mph just inches away from my hysterical child.

Phone girl noticed just in the nick of time. Seriously. She slowed down and I was able to push the pedal to the floor and cut into the left hand lane just as the truck flew by us. I'm finding I'm holding my breath as I write this. I was scared but my daughter was terrified. I had the luxury of thinking about saving us in those moments, all she could think about was a truck crushing her.

I understand now what people mean when they say, "It was just a few seconds, but it felt like hours." That's the only way to describe it. After taking in a breath, I reached back, held my still crying baby's hand and listened to her wail about how she just wanted to get to the other side of the car. I only realized after how bad it really could have been. She lived it in real time in real fear.

But the best possible outcome happened. Once we got home, I lost it. I held her and I cried and I kissed her and I held her and I cried and kissed her some more.

Now, I'm here writing as always. She's out convincing her father to buy her stuff she doesn't need but he will anyway like always. We are fine. But that adrenaline rush I always crave, and what ultimately must have helped save us today, has left me with a hangover so bad, I have no desire for Steven King or Night of the Living Dead and don't know when I will again.

Now more than ever, one of my biggest wishes for her future is to never feel that way again. That was real fear and there was nothing fun about it.

Melissa wears many hats. Some are super colorful and some are dark just like her stories. She is a mother, a friend, a writer, a survivor, a warrior, a yogi, a listener, a talker and a lover of all things art. 

L . O . V . E .

1962. The "live free" times at Coney Island, New York. 

My dad and his brothers thought it would be cool to go buy some unregulated Indian Ink, steal their mom's sewing supplies and rig up a device to tattoo their themselves. 

Knowing their mom would be upset with this idea they thought, collectively, "if they permanently scarred themselves in ink, it should at least be something within reason". So, the word "L.O.V.E" was inscribed on their knuckles. The "L" starting on their pinky, the "O" on their ring fingers and so on and so forth.  A silly idea seeing my dad was only 12 years old at that time, but it was a bond that these brothers shared not knowing how it would be such a monumental time in the lives of their kin decades later.

Fast forward to the last day of the year 2005.  My two brothers, Shawn, Brian and I were drunkenly sitting around a table mourning the death of our grandfather who had just been taken off life support earlier that day. 

Multiple shots of whatever throat burning, vomit inducing libation was available in my house were consumed that evening, some great stories of our lives shared, (ones we knew, ones we didn’t) and even some revelations of some of the shameful shit we did to each other growing up.  It was a day I will never forget. 

It was at this time one of us had the idea. Since we were all together, which was a feat that could only come to fruition because of the untimely death in our family. (We all lived almost exactly 1500 miles apart from each other. One of us was North East, one was South East and the other was Mid West).  We thought that it would be honorable to get the same tattoo that our father got with his brothers 43 years earlier.

The next morning, hung over and with almost no sleep, we shuffled our way into a tattoo parlor to forever mark ourselves with the same "LOVE" tattoo our father and his brothers shared. 

Unknowingly this moment in time  would be one of the last all three of us would be together, ALIVE.

January 2012, as my family and I stare down at the almost lifeless body of my brother, Shawn, I see multiple hands and the word "LOVE" scattered everywhere. One tattooed hand was on his head, another holding Shawn's tattooed hand, another lay on his chest and mine wiping away the tears from my mothers face. It dawned on me that a moment like this should be forever immortalized in a photo. I summoned my father and brother to bring their hands together as well as the dying hand of Shawn and place them on his chest together with mine. 

It was the last time I touched my brother.  It was only a few hours later, while I was on a plane heading back home that my brother, Shawn Eric Agger, passed.  He is forever missed.

Footnote:

This may sound crazy and believe if you may, just minutes after completing this submission for Storytellers: The Collective, I walked outside to play with my two boys. No sooner had I stepped into the sun this butterfly landed on my arm. Startled for a second, the first thing I could think of was to grab my phone for a picture. I moved a little too quickly and he flew off, circled around me and landed right back in the same spot.  This time allowing me to capture a picture of him. Then he spread his wings once or twice while I was photographing before flying away. 

Doing what most of us love to do I immediately posted it on Facebook. After a couple of “likes” and "oohs & ahhs" a friend posted something I was not aware of. She believes butterflies come to us from those we love who are no longer here. She had no clue I had just completed a story about my brother just minutes before. Shawn must have sat with me as I wrote about our last moments together.

Russell Reich

Russell survived the battle of the demons inflicted by the streets of Somerville, Massachusetts. 

He skipped town with his girlfriend, landed in the Midwest and became a father of two boys.

He has always had a knack for things that inspire. 

Mainly music, but anything that took him away from the bad memories or the hustle & bustle 

of work/home life could evoke him to create just about anything he had the time for.

Push & Pull . . .

You came out of nowhere

and everywhere

all at once.

It happened before,

and it's exactly 

what happened

again.

One day

you dropped back 

into my life, 

unexpectedly...

and

like magic

you were all i could think of.

Last time you weren't ready.

You pushed

and pushed

until away 

was my only 

option.

Now, it's different

you are pulling

and pulling

and everything 

in my being

wants to be swept 

closer to you

until there is

nothing

not even air

between us.

But life has been lived

and choices made...

where allowing myself

to be pulled

into you

isn't as easy

as it would have been

before.

I don't know how it will work

or when...

I just know that it will.

If your heart

and my head

will let it.

If we can both

believe,

patiently.

All the days of

"away"

will be 

nothing but

faded memory.

Penelope Jones

Penelope is a free-spirited, tell it like it is poet and storyteller.

  

Much of her work is done by free-writing, which is the "spill it out and don't look back" approach.  

It's honest, pure, sometimes rough and always raw.  She, like so many of us,  has seen tragedy and felt triumph, 

all of which echoes through her words beautifully.  

She is a light, a true beacon and an excellent traveling companion for those who like to trek unbeaten paths.  

She believes in adventure, in packing light, that cussing is therapeutic and that love is always worth it.

Beautiful Distraction . . .

What do you want me to say?

That you are a beautiful distraction?  

Well, you are.

Some days I just accept it

and accept you

just being there

sitting in the corner of my thoughts

camped out in some armchair

with a smirk

on your beautiful face.

Because you know.

You know

that you hold

a power over me.

You know

that you hold 

me captive.

You know 

that every time 

you pop into my life

my heart races

and my hands tremble.

You
are the ultimate distraction

from anything

and everything 

that I ought to be doing.

So, instead of finding focus

and being productive

I just sit here, 

captivated,

as I watch you

in the corner of my mind.

And think to myself

how incredibly beautiful you are.

Penelope Jones

Penelope is a free-spirited, tell it like it is poet and storyteller.
  
Much of her work is done by free-writing, which is the "spill it out and don't look back" approach.  
It's honest, pure, sometimes rough and always raw.  She, like so many of us,  has seen tragedy and felt triumph, 
all of which echoes through her words beautifully.  

She is a light, a true beacon and an excellent traveling companion for those who like to trek unbeaten paths.  
She believes in adventure, in packing light, that cussing is therapeutic and that love is always worth it.