I have often wondered what the world thought of me.

I wish, to step outside myself and see me the way it does.

To watch the way I walk down the street or run into the arms of my lover. With my stilted gait. Do I really do it all differently, than anyone else does?

I would love to see my hair the curly rats nest that it is, blowing in the breeze on a hot summer day. Would I then see what everyone else sees in its natural cascading waves?

My eyes with their alluring hazel hues. I wonder, do they really sparkle like emeralds at times?

If I saw myself idling in line at the grocery store in my pajama bottoms late at night, Would I cringe at such a sight? Or would I applaud such obvious bravery?

I wish I could watch myself writing. I imagine myself in the midst of a story. I would watch in awe, as my left-hand scrolls across the paper creating something that wasn’t there before. My face lit up with the glow of fantasy. I wonder how beautiful I would seem, following my dreams.

I wonder if I came upon myself crying, shattered and broken. Would I be able to resist running up to wrap my arms around myself to whisper “everything will be okay.”

If I watched myself long enough would I be able to discern the moments the past catches up with me just by looking into my eyes?

Would I be like the rest of the world? Judging a book by its cover. Or would I see the past pains that broke my heart, the past joys I share in my heart? The present and all that I have overcome.

Would I see me as I know me? Or would I succumb to the poisonous way the world views me?

I know this cannot happen. I cannot step outside myself and look at who and what I am from another perspective. I guess I will have to be satisfied in knowing who and what I am deep down inside Instead of the distorted image, they see every time, I look in the mirror.

<a href=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/wonder/”>Wonder</a&gt;



This is a twisted love story. It’s my favorite kind of love story.
The kind of love story that enraptures you body and soul, the kind of love story that ensnares you in its wicked dreams and carries you away on a black cloud of sin and… the forbidden.

This is a twisted love story, the kind of love story that can only break your heart, that ties you up in knots, that shatters you like glass, the kind of love story that will one day break you into a thousand tiny pieces…if you’re lucky.

This is a twisted love story. The kind of love story that my mother warned me about when I fantasized about real love from a romance novel when I was a child. A true love story cannot be written it can only be…felt.

This is a twisted love story. The kind of love story that I keep coming back to over and over at nauseum, and without fail. It seems… I am a masochist.

This is a twisted love story. The kind of love story that promises redemption but gives no succor for your cause. The kind of love story everyone wants but no one gets. The kind of love story that will kill you dead while you sleep…if you let it.

This is a twisted love story, the kind of love story that is always waiting in the wings but never shows itself, a mere ghost of what the future could have held and you are left wondering…what might have been?

This is a twisted love story. The kind of love story that will tear you down, shove you into darkness, the kind of love story that will seep into your bones take root like a tree and berate you for not being…perfect.

This is a twisted love story. The kind of love story that will tear you limb from limb and not be satisfied until you are nothing more than blood and gore. Waiting for the sun to rise again.

This is a twisted love story. The kind of love story that will leave the taste of cotton candied rainbows in your mouth and the taste of passion upon your lips, only to have it yanked away in the last moments of…breath.

This is a twisted love story. A story that will make you quiver with delight, the kind of love story that will take you for granted in all the right ways. The kind of love story that will last an eternity, that will shake you to your core and make you a better person. The kind of love that will bring you to your knees and never lose it’s tentative hold.

This is a twisted love story. The kind of love story that will show you the stars when there are none, bathe you in the moons glow when it isn’t glowing, give you a warm fuzzy feeling even when it’s cold.

This is a twisted love story. The kind of love story that is so enamored with itself, you feel the effects long after the thrill is gone.
How do I know all of this, because this is my twisted love story.!


I have a confession to make, I am a lefty! Now I am sure you all have heard the little saying that lefties are the only people in their right mind. While this gave me comfort when I was younger it didn’t stop the barrage of comments that were at times hurtful. I was a nobody in school, I had no friends, I had a bad home life and so it made me a little socially awkward, and being a left-handed person didn’t help matters either.

Nevermind that it had been scientifically proven that left-handers use the right, more creative side of their brain. More of a free thinker if you will. I was still considered the oddball. I was born in the 70’s raised through the 80’s and by the time the mid 90’s hit I was a young adult and graduating high school. Now, this may not seem like a time where people were made fun of for just using their left hand but it was. I was traumatized!

I remember once I was a junior in high school we had a sub in science class, one of my classmate’s father no less, and a preacher to boot. We had this man as our sub for several weeks and  I just happened to sit right in front of his desk. After several days he noticed I was writing with my left hand and actually asked me in all seriousness if I were in some sort of accident that made me this way or was I born this way. Up until then I had actually blown off most of what kids would tease me about but this, coming from an adult, and a preacher no less. It got to me. You see until this moment I just thought kids could be cruel in what they say. Just because you are a little different. However, with this grown man asking me this one single question. The seed of doubt was planted and I began to think maybe there was something wrong with me because I had the nerve to go against the grain so to speak and write with my left hand.

He was not the only teacher that asked me these kinds of ridiculous questions and they all did it in a way that made the entire class sit up and take notice of the left-handed freak. Not good,  when I had been trying to be invisible for the entirety of my school career. As I grew up I realized these people are morons. Even my own mother told me later that when I began learning to write she would swat my hand to try and correct such a deformity, and yet here I am today, left-handed warts and all. Apparently, back in her day, it was a sign that your child was not all there upstairs if they were left-handed. Whatever. I guess she just didn’t want anyone to know about her mentally challenged daughter. Yeah right, “I’m the one that is mentally challenged!”

I stopped caring what others thought of my left-handedness years ago until today that is. I got a taste of the past. You see I have noticed over the years there are a lot of things in this world tailored to right-handed people. Like Golfing, you have to get a special club just to be able to hit a damned ball just over the size of a prune, really. Then there is the bane of my existence the left-handed scissors. I have to have special scissors just to cut a piece of paper. I find it ironic that I was so horribly teased in my first years of school that I made myself learn to use the regular ones, with my right hand I might add. It is one of the very few things only my right hand can do that my left one can’t to this day. I have worked in call centers for most of the past fifteen years, and while there is the dredge of going into your little cubicle every day (just like in a movie). I happen to like it except for one little thing. Every call center I have worked at you use your right hand to work the mouse. While I have grown accustomed to this over time. I now have horrific bouts of arthritis running from the tips of my fingers to just above my elbow. Some days I can’t even lift an empty cup without excruciating pain.

So today I asked my manager if I could get a left-handed mouse for the computer. I know they are out there. She looked at me in horrified shock and asked,”You’re left-handed?” Then proceeded to tell me I would need to get a Doctor’s note in order to get a mouse for my left hand. Really? I don’t know what pissed me off the most the look of utter shock or the whole Dr’s note thing. I mean really we are in 2018. It is not as if I have a flesh-eating virus or something. Yet, this is how she chose to look at me. Wow! Some old feelings stirred for about half a second before I counted to 10 in my head and plastered on a smile I didn’t feel and said, “Okay I’ll look into it.” It just goes to show how much I have grown in the face of such clear stupidity.

I think it is funny that right after high school I saw a bumper sticker that actually read, “lefty’s have rights too”  I loved it and have never been able to find it since then, but it is emblazoned in my mind forever. I will one day have that very same sticker plastered on the back of my car and I will wear it proudly. Remeber without lefties their wouldn’t be such greats as Baseball legends like Lou Gehrig, Joe Jackson, Babe Ruth! Or such phenomenal artists,  as Leonardo da Vinci, Michelangelo, or Pablo Picasso. Or such brilliant minds as Marie Curie, Aristotle, or Jimi Hendrix.  These names are synonymous with greatness in human history. These great minds, all used the right side of their brains and while being a lefty is not all that common what few of us there are tend to do brilliant things and become legends of history. I am proud to have something in common with such greatness.

So before you mock a lefty remember he or she may one day rule the world. Because we may be few in numbers but we are a fortress of strong minds.



It all started with this OWL! I was driving back from somewhere toward my house one evening at the end of the summer when something large with a huge wingspan cut across the front of my car. It was something that moved so swiftly in the dark I couldn’t tell what it was. I stopped so suddenly as to not collide with the beast and almost soiling myself in the process.  I slowly turned my head and there, upon the telephone wire sat, a great big owl. I slowly got out of my car turning on my camera on the phone and with bated breath snapped this photo. He didn’t seem fazed by all the commotion and in fact looked at me as if I were nothing more than a blip on his night. I having, never seen an owl before in real life was left breathtaken and a little curious that he didn’t seem to be afraid of me. He seemed to see into me and a shiver actually went down my spine.

Being more than a little creeped out I slowly backed away and got back in my car and drove home. A part of me shaken to my very core not understanding why? It was just a bird, right? I phoned my friend and relayed the events that had happened and she said, “you know in some cultures seeing an owl is a sign of death.”  Not knowing any of this I, of course, googled it and I wish I hadn’t. You see just a couple of weeks before this I had an overwhelming sense of dread. I had a feeling that I was about to die. I didn’t know how, I didn’t know when, but I felt a certainty unlike anything else I have ever felt in my life. I am still scared of it.

So you can understand that I was more than a little shaken by the news I found on Google. Here is what I found.

Some native American tribes (which I do have a lot of Native American in me). For instance, believe that dreaming of an owl signified approaching death. Boreal owl calls were a call spirits to the Cree people, and if you answered back with a whistle and didn’t get a response, it was a sign that your death was imminent.

Also, owls were associated with witchcraft. Greeks and Romans believed witches could turn themselves into owls, and in this form would come and suck the blood of babies. In other cultures, owls were simply messengers of witches or hooted to warn the approach of a witch.

Some Romans associated owls with the goddess Athena, wisdom, and prophecy.

This is the one that got me cause my friend and I was just talking about it before “the incident” it was that the Ancient Christians saw owls as a sign of evil and linked then with Lilith, Adam’s first, disobedient wife.

There is so much lore, centered around the owls that by the time I read through everything my head was spinning, but he seems to now be following me. I am more than a little freaked out now. It’s as if he doesn’t want me to forget him or something. Because owls keep popping up everywhere in my life. To show you what I mean I am going to add some pics I took of different owls and you can tell me an I worrying for nothing?


There is one pic I don’t have it was right after this incident I had all but forgotten the creepiness of the evening but then I went to work one morning and a friend of mine walked past me and there on her shoulder was an owl purse. Same beady eyes as the real one, but this was only the beginning.

The next one is about a week or so later and I have a pic of it. I went to the doctor to get stitches and as I looked up there at the entrance to the waiting room was a painting of a whole family of freaking owls.


Then came the ads on tv. This one was an insurance commercial.


This one is self-explanatory.


Then came my favorite way to procrastinate (while I am not writing) the tv shows. Granted I have only seen them on two tv shows but they are there every time I watch. This one is 2 Broke Girls see what is behind her on the counter yup it is another owl. I have another pic of the same episode with a shot of an owl on the fridge but I cannot find it at the moment.


Then there is THE BIG BANG THEORY! Look at the table owl salt and pepper shakers. There is another episode where she is in the apartment she had and it does a screen shot of her at the kitchen island with green owl salt and pepper shakers but I never captured that one.


Then there is this one same episode but look what is hanging on the wall behind him.


Then there is my everyday life. My favorite place in the world my used bookstore where I do my open mike poetry nights. The place where I go to unwind and relax. My church so to speak and now it too has been riddled with owls.


And I stopped by there this morning and what do you know right in front of me the owner’s newest addition to the store. Another freaking owl!


Annnd last but I am certain not the least. I was scrolling through stuff on Google this morning after that last pic when I came across the Native American Animal signs. I am not an owl but my best friend who just had her birthday on Saturday is. Ironically the pic looks just like the one I saw that first night, but in a drawing form. Here is that pic.


I am losing my mind here. Please, someone, tell me this is not something I should worry about or is it much like you know when you buy a car and you never see that type of car. Then suddenly because you have one they are everywhere. Am I subconsciously seeking them out? I don’t feel as if I am and yet, they seem to be haunting me. Everywhere I go. Is my madness finally kicking in by way of a night flying bird? Or do I really need to be watchful of falling beams and such? You tell me. Any input would be greatly received.


She was saintly in all that she did.  A wife, a mother, a daughter, a sister. Her roles were etched out for her even before she was born and she played them well.

Always the yes girl, she behaved exactly as she should. Never complaining that her load was too great to bare.

No one ever asking, if she was alright. They just assumed she was, with all her saintly ways.

However, she was full of fire inside. A hunger for a life only she could imagine. A thirst that could never be quenched.

She longed to sink her bare feet into the sand and watch the waves roll upon her. She craved a life she would never have.

She ached to ride wild horses, barebacked and bare-chested. She lusted after the moon and all his beautiful brightness.

She sought a world where she could be free of all her tedious masks. For in her soul she was anything but saintly.


<a href=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/saintly/”>Saintly</a&gt;


I  struggle to keep a straight face as I walk over the bodies that continue to pile up around me. Fodder for my cause, I step over them with sword, in hand. My smile seems to leak out of my face of its own volition. I can’t help it, I am high on the freedom their deaths have brought me. I am a modern-day Joan of Arc and as I swing my blade I cut them down with one heady swipe.

Just as swiftly as the crimson drips from its serrated edge, so do they fall. My enemies, the ner do wells, the fictitious believers with all their righteous causes. It is the thing that makes me smile in the wake of such tragedy. To think that I was able to cut through the bullshit and come out of it the sole victor. To be able to “rise above” so to speak and be the one left standing long after the smoke has cleared and their towers of glass have shattered.

They thought they had me and for a while, they indeed had me on the run. I, however, persevered, “to the victor goes the spoil”  so they say, as I donned my chainmail and breastplate I took up my sword and drew the line in the sand, I went to war! Chopping down every last one of my enemies till there was nothing left, reduced to nothing more than ashes, where once hypocrisy stood.

I am now free of their accusatory tone. Their, negative energy that saps the life out of everything around them. Leaving nothing in their wake but a desolate wasteland of misery and pain. I now stand tall, on the rotting corpses of all that have gone before me. Now fallen at my feet, as if to praise me for my sins. Now washed clean from their lifeless shells. I stand alone, it is my time to dream my dreams and make them my reality.  So I take up my sword, filled with ink and nothing else but my smile I face, the world.