When there is nothing left to say
And you don't know what to pray--
God knows what's in your heart,
The Spirit did He impart.

Tonight, I lie in bed and
scribble in a black spiral
notebook.
Why is cruelty easy for
some? Like laying down
a card.

One of my three cats,
Mojo
sits sleepily on
my old maple desk.
She is all black.
The computer screen is
black.
So are the speakers,
microphone,
and a coffee cup that
sits on the desk.

Above my dresser is a
quote by Hemingway.

"There is nothing to writing.
All you have to do is sit down
at a typewriter and bleed."

It's on black paper.

I've had the room set up
this way for over a year.
I'm just noticing all the
blackness.
Midnight in Nod.
It could be because I miss
my daughter.  She's seven.
All the black fades away when
I think about her smile
and those eyes that laugh at the
rain.

I notice that my shirt
is emerald green, with a
few drops of red.

Plop
Plop

Plop.

The stranger is no longer there
but now familiar brown eyes and soul to bare
He came back home a new man for me
So glad the stranger I no longer see

Now he doesn't want to take me down
but let's me be the queen I am and wear my crown

Now he brings light love and hope
and no longer uses alcohol to cope

No longer the liar I use to know
No longer the stranger with fear and woe

So glad the stranger is gone
now my husband is back with me at home
No longer is he a stranger to me
So glad the stranger I no longer see

Out of nowhere
a thought of you
will hit my mind,
like a poison dart.
I don't know what
triggers it.
Tonight, I think it's
the cold wind blowing
outside my window.
Or, it could be the
tangerine I just ate.
That sweet juice.
It doesn't last
though.
Gone in a flash.
Too small for a
lifetime together.
And I'm alone with
this bright orange pain,
vowing never to write
about you again.