If I could write like EMILY DICKINSON, I'd be dead

Happy birthday baby. Bye bye my sweet love. Miss you much. Think of you still. Never far from my heart. Ever present in my spirit. My arms ache for you still. I do not understand. I do not question. I cry alone. But rejoice in you still. Sign in to see full entry.

You, who knew me, You, who lived in my light, You, who took my breath away, have now taken my sight. Sign in to see full entry.

Who was I when you fell in love with me? I can’t remember who I used to be. Young once, passionate I know, just who was I, all those many years ago? It seems I am missing someone I’m not sure I ever really knew, but I am certain she was once in love with you. I look for glimpses of the girl I let... Sign in to see full entry.

I handle each with care as I put them in their new place; and then imagine you there with a smile upon your face. I think you would like their new home, but they look a little lost to me – perhaps just out of place; We've had a long road, and it shows upon each beautiful, porcelain face. For a... Sign in to see full entry.

She said they sounded, Oh I don’t know like something she had read a hundred times before. This Italian woman I met only once. She read my poetry and was apparently unimpressed. I guess I should have been hurt by her words, offended or something. But I wasn’t. I do often wonder, though what exactly... Sign in to see full entry.

She sat in their living room in a place she once called home, and went back in time, as she studied the pictures on their wall. Looking at their wedding day photo, she stepped back into the shoes of a young, naïve girl, who put her hand in his, and promised her heart to only him; she buried her head... Sign in to see full entry.

I often sit in church and ponder what would happen if I started laughing during invocation when everybody is crying and everything is so serious and then I get tickled and have to bite my cheek or pinch my arm really hard to keep from laughing out loud I cover my eyes and duck my head dang it how... Sign in to see full entry.

I cried over my kid’s baby books, footies my grandma made handprints on paper and those little red shoes. I cried over my yearbooks, moccasins my grandma gave me first Halloween costumes and that old wooden bobber. But I didn’t cry over the milk. I threw it away. Sign in to see full entry.