Upon the night the poet writes,
within my darkened room
under candlelight all is revealed.

From my ink comes black and blue, with bruises from my passed I stain these walls.

Memories never leave me,
pain and suffering is like a
shadow always following me.

Writing is a release, a bandaid
to help me heal.

These emotional hills are a
struggle to claim, but I grew bat
wings so watch me fly.

©️ 2021 By Amanda Shelton

an anticipation hit me
in dim lit periphery
a darker sky swathed out
over a sea
set off so tender
stroking the reef
white light hung so low
a wash of pale and navy
poured onto lush green
as he leaned in to kiss me

if the ******* could be so easy
if we were caught in such a dreamy scene
carried ashore by the cling
of his hands wandering
sailing with the sting
and like the hacking and the coughing
when out of lungs came pouring
every unsaid thing
sand soaking up the drippings

I was perched on the cliff side
sent to stoke some man's eye
took the body but not the mind
wracking the shell I sleep inside
to test the careen on different tides
air under feet as the moon hung high
bargained for a swift crack on the collide