—the little girl—
A Poem
A dim hush
where light sways
Where flickers of sun
Scatter in the
Sunrise’s haze
A young woman is sat
on her worn tire swing,
The one that now—
fits snug around her hips.
Her tangled-brown hair
Catching the last light
From flickering street lamps
Beyond the trees.
Her feet resting the grass
As she reads,
Deep chocolate brown
Scanning the pages
With quiet intention.
She glides through pages
Where stories take her places,
Where she tries to study what to be.
She studies pages
Till the last streetlamp fades
Before tucking it nice
In her worn-leather satchel
With her mini gold key,
And her yellow beach towel.
She wanders downhill
Where pastel flowers dance,
where children
Squeal as they play,
running her fingers
along the small chains—
The ones where she would sit
and swing
Or play king and queen
Till her hands calloused
Or her parents called to eat.
She ran her hands along
the slide—
—her favorite.
As she felt like flying.
She thought.
Thought about what changed.
Why she did not walk this park,
Why she did not play anymore,
Why she did not catch frogs
Along the river.
Thought
why she had not climbed the old oak tree
The one—when she was little—
Where she would be perched
On its strongest branch.
—she kept that tree-branch climb a secret.
She knew it was wrong
She was told she could fall—
But she hid it
Because
In her mind,
then,
She felt free.
She was a
Young.
Curious,
Excited,
Dreaming.
She walked.
She walked
With her head high,
Even though
a tear slid down her cheek.
She walked.
Even though she started to realize
That she had lost parts of herself.
She kept going.
Even though she could now drive,
had all A’s in school,
She was a good friend—
kind,
Respectful,
Responsible,
Yet she let herself sink.
As she realized that things
are changing too fast.
She was a women
And she could not escape it.
Last time she spoke to her parents,
They cried together.
she forgot to say “I love you” back.
Now—a women—
she realizes
that as she’s grown,
They've grown.
They've hurt.
They’ve cried.
They've loved.
They've seen
The woman she became.
She
Never asked.
—Never questioned
—Who she wanted to become.
She walks.
Where white foam laces—
The sand like cloth,
Then recedes into blue.
She kneels
against the grains—
To grasp at
Shells and
Play with *****
That scatter among
The towers of corroded rocks.
soon—
She is resting
On the pier.
Towel beneath her
Her legs swinging over the ledge.
she watches
Sailboats glide quietly
Under the new-day sun.
She watches the waves
That rush up the columns
and rumble back out,
While the pier creaks
Under the growing heat.
Her parents walked this bridge.
holding her hands,
Lifting her up in the air
As she would laugh.
She would always
Sprint up to the ice cream booth
And order her favorite.
“Strawberry with chocolate drizzle”
—her parents had never stopped laughing
While it dripped down her chin
Left a spot on her nose,
Got tangled in her
—carefully braided hair.
they would sit.
Right where she was now,
And somehow— just talk.
Talk about her friends,
Disgusting school lunches
That made her gag.
The boys in her class
That annoyed her.
This all came rushing back
As she sobbed
into her towel.
—her feet dangling over the pier.
With knowledge
the ice cream shop is gone,
That life had changed
And she was lost.
She sat and sobbed
While the wind bit at her nose.
While the water
Tickled her ankles,
Till all she could hear
Was the waves, her heartbeat,
And the small gasps
Escaping from her throat.
She stood up,
Wiping her face.
Picked up her
—tear soaked towel,
walked to the very
End of the pier.
She watched it
Stand over her.
The lighthouse.
She had been
Scared of going up there.
But she stood here now,
Satchel resting against her hip
Head high again.
—unlocking the door
With that little gold key,
That was given to her
And had been
a mystery.
She walked up
The skinny-scuffed stairs,
Walked up all hundred-
reaching the balcony.
Her hand grasping the rail
As she slid onto the wooden floor.
She watched.
Watched people exist in life.
Watched as neighborhood kids
Giggled—going down the slides
Watched.
As many
Swam,
Laughed,
Loved,
Lived.
she knew then—
That even though
She wasn’t the same
Little girl.
She could not climb that tree,
Or could not fit down the slide.
She was still herself.
But life had changed
—and she changed with it.
Standing there
She knew.
She wanted something
—Not smaller,
But bigger.
As the tire swing
No longer fit her like it did,
That book she had
Did not set her free,
The key she had
Was not the answer.
now—
Standing in this lighthouse
Overlooking the world wake.
She felt it.
Felt it stretch—
Then ignite.
As the light she had carried.
—the sparkle she once had
Was still there,
Still glowing.
—and now
Keeping it lit
Was all she wanted.
Just as it had
As a little girl.
Dec 27, 2025
Dec 27, 2025 at 2:22 PM UTC
(Looking for feedback!)
The Girl Who Wanders
-Olivia Williams-
—A Poem—
She wanders—
Wanders the beach
Looking for a sign.
Her feet sink
Into sand
That mold into each step.
The crest of the oceans foam,
Stretching just below her sandals.
She wanders this beach,
Pastel shells
prodding her calloused hands.
Where they fight in her
Thoughtful silence.
On this beach,
She wanders—
Wanders under
The rusted metal beams
Of the Bridge
That seems to screech
At her thoughts.
Pleading to stop searching;
Stop hoping,
Stop loving,
Stop being—
what she is looking for.
She wanders past the bridge’s shadow,
Who looms over her head.
The gulls cry in pleas,
croaking out echoing
Laughs.
Yet she still wanders.
—wanders while the sand
Tugs;
Pulls,
Grasps,
And clutches her ankles.
Trying to pull her back
From something,
She’s not sure
Is even there.
The wind clings at her oily-brown, disheveled hair.
She can’t what’s
pulling her in,
Or pushing her back
With what little strength
her torn-rope sandals have left.
The shells dig themselves
Crevassing into her palm,
even beauty whispers:
It can burn, can bleed, can bruise.
Yet — with all.
There is a pull
In her skinny, shallow ribs
A rope the snapped
Inside her head,
A gap in bruised knees,
A pained mind, and
A breath left in her chest
Keeping her heart
Together—
Even when it’s about to
Collapse.
While she wanders—
She wonders.
With salt in wounds,
With scars
Coated in thick sand,
With torn sandals,
she wonders.
Wonders
If the thing she is searching for
Isn’t here.
Isn’t in the shells
That dig
Into pain,
That became numb
Long ago.
That was she is searching for,
Isn’t
In the bridge
That sits
Mumbling rusted groans.
She wonders
if
She should pray,
But no one had
Ever answered her calls,
so she gave up
Years ago.
As she wanders—
she wonders.
If she will even
remember her name.
She stumbles into the part of the beach,
Where the sea is blackened
Over the years.
Where old docks jut out from the shore.
Nails,
Pointing their sharp fingers
At everything and nothing.
She walks,
Where sea glass
Is mixed in with greying sand,
Crunching under her sandals.
Walks Where fish nets
And hooks
Scatter,where Saltwater corrodes
At the beached metal scraps.
Somewhere within thick
fog,
A bell tolls
From a fishing ship.
She wonders
As she stumbles,
If the bell is
Echoing for her
Or for
Someone else.
Echoing promises,
That she’s not sure
She could trust.
Wondering
As she wanders,
If her name
Is out there somewhere,
If she wandered too far,
If she wondered too much.
What she didn’t realize—
Is that when there was blood
It was hers.
When there was scars,
They were hers.
When she wondered,
They were hers.
She doesn't realize
her name is hers,
She doesn’t realize
Everything she does—
IS HERS.
Yet the bell tolls;
The seagulls cry,
The bridge rattles,
The sand clings,
The shells ****
And she wonders.
Wonders,
if all the noise
Is an echo in her head.
She thinks—
At the final toll of the vessel,
Before it leaves port.
That each noise
Is someone looking for her,
Someone called her name.
Some day
she will realize,
Every noise
Was the past
Stopping her,
From hearing ahead.
She still doesn’t listen,
But eventually
She will hear a call.
Her name,
Her life,
Her future,
And perhaps call back.
….Before it’s too late.
She doesn’t realize this,
So she remains
The girl who wanders.
Searching for something.
Searching
For
What’s actually inside her.
Waiting to be named
something—
or someone else then…
“The Girl Who Wanders”
Nov 26, 2025
Nov 26, 2025 at 7:33 PM UTC
(NOTE: I HAVE NOT PUT IN ANY GRAMMER CHANGES YET!) sorry ahead of time!
Flame
By: Olivia I. Williams.
They steal the help id give
—but bring it back
In decay
When I asked
for a small flame back
They’d walked away
I've been there
Voice in the mirror
But they cracked mine
With no fear
Because my kindness
They thought
—was forever
They used my flame
—Watered it down
with problems
Till it was just smoke
Blamed me for not
being strong enough
To keep them lit
When I was fighting
For the last flicker of hope
I keep restarting my fire
—Keep finding my flame
But they keep smothering it
Pushing on blame
While fear
Builds
Leaving me
Thinking Im insane
I reach for what I can
But it just disintegrates
Drifting away
In a cloudy mist
Of smoke
And dust.
I ask
I beg
For a spark
But they treat my flame
Like money they can spend
Maybe I’ll stop asking?
Maybe I’ll stop sharing?
Maybe I’ll stop fixing?
I know my voice
can speak more than words
Like the smoke
But I refuse to let anyone see it
Yet now the words that I breath
Forever holds flame
That will stay lit
Like when I write
These words
On the page.
Now I learn that I am silence
I don’t reply
Cause I can light only for I
Without needing to fix anyone else’s flame
I built from broken ember
That I used to write these words
To build myself up
And this time
Myself and my words
Burn only for me.
Nov 12, 2025
Nov 12, 2025 at 5:06 PM UTC
Prairie
-a poem:
Olivia I. WILLIAMS
———————
Cocktails tumbling —
Softly rumbling —
Tender, mumbling wind
Long grass
Grazes the woodchip trail
As morning grows past
And the sun prevails.
Immense oak trees
Tower and sway
Over clovers.
While whispering streams
Fill the day.
The oak
Sends shadows
Stretching across
The sunlit grass.
Though sun still
Lights the eager flowers —
It's one true task.
Worn oak lodge
Nestled in thoughts —
Dreams.
Moss on the steps
Small treads,
Leading to a true home
Of rest.
Inside — well kept
Floor-length light
Curtains of linen,
Billowing white.
The scent of firewood,
Lemon,
And lavender
Spills into every room.
Sunlight rests
Comfortably on the oak-paneled
Walls.
warmth resides
Flickering gently like campfire flame
In bedroom shadows —
Fire remaining tame.
A clock ticks on
With silent grace
Amongst the music
In the
Gentle, silenced place.
Teacups gather
Along the counter
From morning’s start
Still warm,
Resting against the
Oakwood —
Like integrated art.
The breeze glides in —
Stretching through
The yellow tulips.
Drifting near the prairie
Where deer settle along the creek,
Sipping from the teal cascade
While bending among grass
And settling in
The shadows spread —
Not even the rustling speaks.
Squirrels play —
Once they scrambled,
Now they stay.
Soon, the prairie settles
Warmth of sun retreats,
Sinking in ocean-blue sky
And cotton candy clouds
With new—
Starry night above.
Faint golden glow
Of the lamp
Among the licking
Light of fire.
In the night,
As the last stars settle to rest,
A tender voice clears —
Singing as the sun sets
In pastel paint,
Voice elegantly swaying
A soft tune.
By the creek
Loons all coo,
Flying in tune together
Like a fairy.
The last gentle note —
Not leaving any weight
Of the day carried.
At last,
The day ends
On the
Prairie.
Sep 29, 2025
Sep 29, 2025 at 8:59 PM UTC
The Sea That Sparkles
A poem: By Olivia Williams
——————————————-
Sunset spills like melting gold,
Tumbling through my dry fingers—
Sifting the soft grain through my palm,
Some sand—almost forming a mold.
Shells— sea worn, colors seeming to bleed through their rough patches.
Waves nudging along the sandy shore,
Seeming to lap the surface
In white foam,
Slowly hushing and sighing
As they swirl together,
leaving shells—
More intertwining—catching on the fine sand,
Forever sifting just beyond the water's edge.
The lighthouse glows,
Casting light—
A silent voice that flows to those beyond the shallow waters,
Holding the sea in place—
Just in case.
Soft humming surrounds
As cardinals glide—
conversing together in mounds
On the lighthouse top,
Attracted by the growing night.
Knowing sleep is eminent,
So they hum goodbyes,
Murmuring together as
Everything settles after crossing ties.
Still— Beaming light slices into
Teal—cascading waters,
Lighting a path of watercolored flame— lighting the last of foaming waves.
Never seeming to falter,
As if there stretching to reach me,
At the last grin of the sun.
Sea spreads molten pastels—
Tints of sapphire, moss, and soft yellow,
Open valleys underneath
The sheltered coral,
Shuffling in place as tropical-hued fish,
Cluttering around it
While seeming to sway like bells.
Each wave of color layering
—unlocking a key.
Like a canvas—a small brushstroke in motion,
holding life only few ever see.
The sun,
Scattering jewels like Ember
across the fading horizon.
The clouds drifting,
Leaving a Crystal sky
Where the shades of sunset settle,
To look like glass
—The view never seems to lie.
Distant murmurs of
Tide’s steady tune,
A salty tang sifts
the ocean air,
A faint scent of seaweed, and tulips
Scatter the sea side,
Never leaving the beach bare.
Tiny ***** scurry about the sand,
Forming miniature shadows—
While creeping through crevasses
Of water-worn rocks,
Sinking into the land.
What's left of foam still laces the shore,
Like woven-textured fabric
—foam bubbling more.
Light bends one last time,
Never faltering over the ledge.
Filling the sky
Where the last of day
Meets the eternal edge.
—till morning
Waves slither to an end,
Leaving any small damage
On the shore to mend,
Night drapes,
Stars shimmer softly.
Sea breathing–a soft and slow drum.
Sea’s quiet hum—
The softest sound of day,
Drifting patiently
For the next day to come,
To eternally illuminate the water
In miracles and chrystal’s.
As no matter the day,
The sea sparkles—
Either way.
Sep 29, 2025
Sep 29, 2025 at 8:02 PM UTC
Grief Walked In
A Poem
————————
“Lady Grief” walked in—
tears streaming down
her sunken, exhausted face.
My windows grow foggy
as mist rolls in,
covering all the things I enjoyed—
all the things I used to chase
with passion.
I just keep thinking it isn’t real.
I just can’t grasp that he’s GONE.
Regrets in my head
getting too loud.
She sits on
my black sofa chair,
mumbling to herself,
reminding me of all the times
I didn’t give him that one bone,
every time
I forgot to fill his water bowl
before school,
every time
I didn’t follow directions
to care for him.
I keep fighting to hear the same
pitter-patter of paws
on the wooden tile each morning.
BUT ALL I HEAR IS SILENCE.
Her jet-black dress,
pale blue eyes,
pale skin,
black matted hair—
forming into the worn
sofa chair,
knowing that she’ll forever live there,
forever mumbling,
forever having tears
tumble down her face,
down her dress,
creeping into the
cramped—
black heels
that seem to fit a little too tight
around her
bruised ankles.
I keep calling his name to eat,
but he doesn’t skitter around that corner
with his tongue out of his mouth..
THEN I REMEMBER HE'S NOT HERE.
It’s written in the lines of memory—
every time I refused
to take him for a walk
because I didn’t want
to get out of bed.
He was just here.
He WAS JUST here.
HE WAS JUST HERE.
Written in lines—
where she clutches
the once
lively—colorful journal,
now tear-stained,
and regrets filling the pages—all intertwined
like
the black mascara
that runs down like sorrow—
just hitting her chin
before she wipes it away—
still leaving stains,
like the memories
of his presence,
of his life
that was so energetic,
so lively,
now missing
from that bed in the corner.
I should’ve walked him MORE.
I should’ve given him EVERYTHING.
Maybe if I had loved better—
he’d STILL be here.
It isn’t MY fault.
But why do I FEEL this way?
It’s written in the lines—forever.
She still calls his name
but cries more,
realizing
he is not coming
through the front door,
that his tongue
no longer hangs out of his mouth
as he trots over—
his presence each day—
she realizes
is no more.
TOBY!” she calls,
waiting… Hoping…
her voice echoing
down the empty halls.
…NOTHING.
Then something clicks—
She curls in tight,
sobbing,
clutching the sofa
like it might
keep her from slipping
beneath the weight
of this endless night.
She bites her lip
that won’t stop trembling—
biting hard enough
to hold back the scream
clawing up
from somewhere deep.
She calls again:
“Toby!”
“TOBY!?”
“TOOOOBBBYYYYY!?”
Her voice cracks—
but the bed stays still,
the floor doesn’t creak,
no paws patter,
no tags clink,
Just… stillness.
Except for her sobs,
shallow, breaking,
and the soft thud
of the tear-soaked journal
as it slips from her lap
and thuds to the floor.
I sit,
wondering
if I invited her—
if she knew
before I did.
I thought she came
to help me heal...
But I was wrong.
I’m lost
in the infinite absence.
Tears fall like rain—
a teal cascading waterfall
Once she walked in,
I could never forgive myself.
There’s no way
she could be tamed.
She DOESN'T leave.
She wanders the house clutching that notebook like a life line— refusing to let others see what turmoil’s inside her.
She DOESN'T sleep.
She looks out the window at the foggy night sky, sitting into her worn chair, oversized black pajamas hanging over her loose—tired form.
She WATCHES me breathe—
and reminds me
he’ll NEVER breathe again.
It’s written in the lines—of the sofa.
—I also have to try to tame
“Lady Grief,”
as she still sits in that black sofa chair,
crying—
clutching onto that notebook,
adding a new weight.
That notebook she carries—
getting heavier by the day.
Adding to the loss
that took us both,
tearing us both apart.
Some days I don’t know
if it’s HER crying—
or me….
Our pain radiates together,
forever trapped in the ACHE.
Now I’m responsible
for taming her cries,
for erasing a line
each day,
for forgiving mistakes
that still
are confined
in my brain
and in hers like a cage.
But what if I DON'T want to HEAL?
What if healing MEANS forgetting?
I DON'T want to FORGET.
“Lady Grief” walked in—
Now we’re both here.
—I become responsible
to fight
for his remembrance,
for the day
“Lady Grief” walked in.
I just miss him
so incredibly much.
All I can do
is clutch—
onto the LOVE of him
that I have
ENGRAVED in my veins.
I have to fight to remember—
Forgetting means LOSING HIM TWICE.
Sep 7, 2025
Sep 7, 2025 at 3:14 PM UTC
I had JOINED HP on may 26th 2024!
Now EVERY SINGLE “may 26th”
I will send out an ”Anniversary” (if you will)
Of when I first joined that INCLUDES the names of my TOP 3 poems or writings in THAT year!
So you can go check them out again! And we can remember each year with the growing change in each poem, as I grow as an author, poet, and writer!
Thanks y’all for reading this!
Post more soon!
Love, your writer—
-- OW
Aug 27, 2025
Aug 27, 2025 at 11:30 PM UTC
I was born.
Everything was fine.
No complications.
No troubles.
But time grew long…
As I grew older.
Middle school came
So did the slaps on the shoulder,
The punches
The tripping
The cussing
The pain
The bleeding
The bruises
The swelling
The shame
I didn’t stand up up myself
When I almost died
That very last day
In 7th grade.
Then an outlit appeared in 8 grade
Called .poetry”
Then I knew,
That I could tell
What I had experienced.
Now I share everything!
All poetry that Ive made,
It’s my new outlit—
A new-me re-born.
I can finally release
Everything that was so bottled up
While saying
“IVE HAD ENOUGH”
Writing became my life..
Look where I am now
I’m LITERALLY WRITING on HP
With over 100 VIEWERS
Who I HAVE found that want to help me
Who have boarded my boat
On the very bow
Had helped me rebuild my life
WHEN THOSE WHO HAD HURT ME
we’re STILL on the prowl
NOW
I have…
Over 550 POEMS
32 BOOKS
ALL different works IVE worked my ****
Off to make
To let of of
So people can SEE
Can HEAR
WHAT IVE BEEN-THROUGH
I Could HAVE DIED
that day
But poetry saved me
When no one else listened
YOU DID
Thank you
EVERYONE
As I continue
TO FIGHT
I’m CONSTANTLY
Struggling with chronic illnesses
Made up of trauma
And Mental and physical issues.
I STILL need support
Now..Im COULD NOT
Be happier to say..
I FOUND MY COMMUNITY
Welcome to…
MY HP PROFILE EVERYONE!
Aug 27, 2025
Aug 27, 2025 at 11:04 PM UTC
I had grown
from the blood—
grown
from that pain,
grown from those
who left me behind that day.
Yet when I grew,
covered in blood, sweat, and tears,
I didn’t realize how tainted I was—
with new fears,
new unimaginable pain,
new illness,
all said to be “framed.”
I grew—
yet they left me broken,
with more blood
that keeps clotting up.
Now my future is clotting—
with that blood,
that regret,
that pain,
that shame
of not speaking up
when I could have—
of leaving myself
with this new pain.
Even though I can’t go back,
this growth
has left me
permanently
changed.
Aug 26, 2025
Aug 26, 2025 at 11:29 PM UTC
Tumbling down my windows.
Outside—
Hazy fog
Overtakes the
Giant oak tree.
I curl up there
In my beanbag,
Looking out,
Tears streaming down my face
As I realize
That the fog and dew are like me.
They hide the good things,
Except the fog and dew don't last forever—
But what I see and experience do.
The little cardinal
Who sits on my small windowsill
Has now vanished
Into the dense fog.
Their sweet sound,
The gentle “coo,” no longer prevalent,
Leaving only my own thoughts,
My own breath,
And tears.
The fog so thick,
My window
No longer acts as a mirror.
I have so many fears—
They all come true.
I still fight.
Though I can’t stop the fog,
I light up my room
And place scents around.
I clean the dew
That trembles down my window
While I try not to fear,
As things do get better.
While I'm getting help,
I still struggle.
Each day and night, I fight
My body and mind.
But I'm here,
Pushing through,
Finding things to hold on to,
And slowly wipe away—
Like the fog and morning dew
That consume my life,
Just like my health does too.
Aug 26, 2025
Aug 26, 2025 at 11:12 PM UTC