When I was fourteen I knew everything. I’d seen everything. I was right about everything. You couldn’t tell me anything. When I was twenty-four I was wrong about everything. I screwed up everything. You couldn’t get me to believe in anything. When I was thirty-four I figured out some things. I saw some things. Learned
Is hope to be found; in things I buy underground. From plants and pills; my world spills; into the next. Until nothing beats inside my chest.
I reached 1,000 likes on my Facebook page. I know in the grand scheme of life, it’s just a page. But it kind of feels like a milestone. So, I’m giving away some stuff. Follow my page if you want to win Amazon gift cards, t-shirts, signed books, chocolates, wine, beer, an oil change. https://www.facebook.com/nicoleloufasauthor
My Eyes You’re my eyes when I can’t see; the destructive life I tend to lead. Drugs or drink. Sex, love, or how I think. Although we often disagree. Through your eyes I will see. The person I am destined to be.
So, I missed a week. But good things were happening. I had a Cover Reveal for my new book. If you haven’t seen it, you should check it out. It’s beautiful. And now – poetry. You’re right. I’m wrong. Same old dance to a different song. The lyrics vary day to day. The melody is
This started as a love poem then went way off course. That’s why I love it. It was actually 4 poems that I morphed into one. The path I follow has no signs. No lights. No lane. I make my own way. Follow my own rules. Create my fate. … In your hand is a
I actually wrote this a few years ago, but it’s still one of my favorites.
Clarity. Misguided voices in your head. Speak of hatred, anger, death. Whisper signs. Corrupt your mind. Silently lie in wait, of your last breath. Don’t give in. The voice is pretend. Your wounds are real. They throb and bleed. No longer hidden where eyes can’t see.
I want you broken, battered, and beat. I want you on your back unable to stand. Its more convenient for me. It satisfies my needs. My impulse to help. My desire to please. Is it selfish? Maybe. Everthing about this poem is selfish. It’s meaning. It’s orgin. Just writing these words are completely and totally
On the first day of sophmore year in high school my science teacher asked us to write an essay about our summer vacation. It’s obvious to me now, that he really didn’t want to work so he dished out an assignment with absolutely nothing to do with science. Like every summer of my childhood, I did