Lonely Ballerina

ballerina, ballet, lonely, dance
Photo by Ricardo Moura from Pexels.


Ballerina’s dance across the wallpaper that lines

Eleanor’s bedroom.

Every time she begins to close her eyes,

they move.

A pirouette,

a grande jeté,

a pas de bourree

around a stone fountain,

beneath the stars.

The dancers turn

and leap,

smiling and laughing.

Eleanor stumbles out of bed

and assumes first position.

The dancers don’t look.

She spins three times,

pushing for a fourth.

They don’t notice her stopping short.

“Hey!” She waves at them, waiting for them to watch.

But they laugh louder,

look only at each other,

and vanish.


Like this poem? Read more like it: http://www.wedbushwrite.com/carnival-dance/

Northern Night

north, night, imagination, aurora
Image via Pixabay from Pexels

The quiet of night settles over her bedroom

as the cricket choir chirps.

The warm comforter tangles

around her feet.

As her eyes close,

green and blue lights dance in the corner of her room.

Could it be the glow from her TV

as the credits role?

No, it’s something more

reflected in her mirror.


In the reflection, her tall wooden desk has transformed

into a log cabin

with soft, inviting light shining through the windows.

Her white iron bed frame

is now a sled.

And her tan carpet has turned into snow.

She kicks off the covers

and now she’s skating

across a frozen lake

beneath a sky of stars and the Aurora.


The air is cool, but not too cold.

Light from the sky fends off the dark.

Being alone does not scare her.

And when she returns to her bed and her room and her life,

she feels safe.

Pretending was easy then.

Bitter Burn

Image via Pixabay from Pexels


A thin stream of smoke rises from the match,

twisting towards the ceiling.


Relief rushes her head.

But her stomach continues to churn,

moving too fast to calm now.


The harsh burning smell

covers the lavender candle scent.


She succeeded, she tells herself,

reminds herself.

But memory stings.

Leaving her old home did not stop the reminiscing.


The flame flickers.

The wick burns.


Images of the past invade her vision,old feelings fill her veins,she relives them,she relishes them,they

demand to be remembered.


It’s only when the purple candle wax pools

that the smell of lavender permeates the room,

chasing away the bitter burning.

Lovely Eyes

love, flowers, roses
Image via Burst from Pexel

Words are halting.

They come out messy,

left of their meaning.

They miss the mark.



An all-encompassing word that covers

family, friends, partners, pets.

It means you care and want to be around them.

Sometimes it’s flimsy cardboard.

Get it wet

and it dissolves.

It can be a word that you use because you have to.

You don’t feel it now,

but you’re supposed to.

Or it can be a word that you mean,

but you don’t know how you mean it.

“Love” without definition,

somewhere between friend and more.


The truth is in her face.

The lips curve;

eyes shine.

The unguarded smile,

“I love you” in the eyes.


Like this poem? Read more like it: http://www.wedbushwrite.com/kissing-strangers/

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Lost Again

Photo by James Wheeler from Pexels

Your path diverts in four different directions:

the sunny route by the ocean,

the one shrouded by dark forest,

the dirt trail over a hill,

or the one through the meadow.

You can’t see the end of any of them.

You know what you want.

You’ve read the map,

the paths that others have taken.

But these trails aren’t familiar.


So you start down one,

then double back.

Half way through the woods you wonder,

is this what I want?

What’s important?

Was I wrong before?

Is this the right way?


Voices jeer at you.

They give advice, all conflicting.

You’ve gained some ground

in the wrong direction.

So you give up everything,

swallow your pride,

ignore the voices,

and find yourself again.


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Image via Breakingpic from Pexels


Detached words sound sweet,

inspire creativity,

Make you leap off the edge.

No parachute.

No plan.


Time traps you,

unable to skip the hard stuff.

There are options, escape plans.

Rum, vodka, pills,

but numb isn’t happy.


Let go let go let go let go.

Forgive your mistakes.

Forget the confused judgement in their eyes.


Eat too much.

Sleep too much.

Stress too much.


Know that you can’t go back.

Too late.

Too bad.

Playing in the Spotlight

It’s the liquid courage,

weapon of choice: rum.

It’s the music,

the way the notes hit

and connect everyone in that moment of ecstasy.

It’s the intimate side eye and smile,

the perfect joke,

the rest of the room fading away.

It’s the attention,

knowing that you’re attractive and interesting,

confidence pulsing through your veins,

replacing your blood.

The feeling pushes you forward, driving you to run and dance and act,

but it can’t last.


Excitement fades.

Parties end.

Confidence wavers.

And reality waits.


Like the poem? Leave a comment and read on: http://www.wedbushwrite.com/going-out/


Not for the first time, a single, brown hair drifts into the hinge of her glasses.

The two plastic ends meet.

Clinging together, they strangle the hair.

It snaps off.

The girl pushes her glasses up her nose,



In the shower, water splatters the white tiles

as she washes her hair.

The shampoo scrubs away the dirt and more.

Long dark strands of hair tangle around her fingers.

They streak down the tile like thick rivers,

too thick, too much hair.


Her eyes drift over the mirror

not looking long,

not seeing the scalp peaking through.

But as she turns the corner, she sees the wall through her hair,

blue paint.

A soothing blue

that amplifies the calm buzz of the razor.

Buzz buzz, like a lazy fly on a hot summer day.


“Are you sick?”

No. She’s healthy.

It happens.


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The Lies We Tell Ourselves


Do you hear the ticking?

Count the seconds,

the minute,

the days,

the years.

Wish them away.

Push it off to tomorrow.

Rain check, reschedule.

Plan like you have time.

Promise forever to him. All the time you have and beyond.


Grey snakes through your hair.

Lines mark your skin.

The aching starts.


Memories slip away.

Where did you put them?


The stress,

bad decisions,


all become apparent in your body.


“Time heals all wounds”


The wounds become scars;

the pain dulls.

They mark you always.


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Perfectly Fake

Fake families play out scripted dramas across your screen.

The over-the-top reactions should be disorienting. The lack of clutter in

all the rooms should pull you out of the story, but you’ve become used to it.

You watch their lives with varying

levels of


You want to know what happens next.

You want to see the humor. You want to see the painful things happen to someone else.

Maybe it makes it easier.

When you aren’t engrossed in your show (or even when you are)

you scroll social media,

mindlessly following pictures and statuses about other people’s lives.

You want to be happy like them. Go places like them. Take happy, smiling, perfect pictures like them.

And maybe you would, if you did anything interesting.

Instead you resign yourself to watching through your screens.

Because watching is easier.

Because you’re convinced that you don’t have time to do more.

Because you’re tired.