I’m a poet, and didn’t even know it

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I was sifting through some of my old blog ideas, trying to find something to spark my inner creative nature, that has been bogged down lately. You see, I started focusing on projects that sat on my desk, and while I am doing well to finish those, I have forgotten that there, at the edge of my own sanity, sits a need to be personally creative. It’s one thing to write and edit, to throw in your own little flare. But it has been so long since I have been able to pull something organic out of my noodle and put it to “paper.”

While, this is not something new, it is mine. I wrote it in 2018. I had tried my hand at Poetry, and back then I thought it was trash. That I was trying to focus on something that was unpolished. But I find myself forgetting that I wrote it, and getting lost in the stanzas.

Don’t get the wrong idea, I’m not sitting here thinking that this is gold, or that I’m some Maya Angelou or Edgar Allen Poe type. I am aware that this is not great, and there are flaws. But the point of writing is to bleed, right? Or, so the internet tells me.

Love it, hate it, ignore it. Whatever. But as always, come back and visit Live Writely for more content.


“She was a meadow, you told me. 

Her hair was the wild strawberries and her eyes the bark on the trees.

She was the freedom of wind making the grass dance.

She was as careful as the doe and as carefree as the fawn.  


Then she was a waterfall, you told me.  

She was beautiful to look at, but tragic at the touch.

Her skin was smooth like the rock at the bottom of the river. 

She was the excitement and the fear when you heard the crashing.

She was calm, like the stream that the falls turned into.


Above all she was the skies, you told me. 

She was everything you dreamed of.

She was what you looked at when you were happy, sad, irate. 

Her voice was the clouds that covered the sun when it became too much to look at.

She carried the world with her.

She carried  your world with her.


At last she was a graveyard, you told me.

She was peaceful at rest, but still twisted hearts. 

She could tell a story with only a few words.

She was hard to forget. 

You look like her, he told me.

“Loving Daughter, Mother, and Wife. Forever a meadow, dangerous and cunning as a waterfall, and as open as the skies.””

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