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I miss writing. Like I used to do, you know? Writing and getting paid to write was such fun. Sometimes difficult but mostly fun.

I might start again. Here a little, there a little. Not as much as I did before because I've got enough jobs to keep me uber occupied otherwise. Perhaps just a dip or two in the warm water of writing to clear out what's in my head. I had a gig at a paper or two here in town and they said I could always come back if I wanted to do so. The editors were fans. Which was nice.

It was always great therapy before. I'm sure it will be again.

And I'll try and tone down the snark. I said try. Try.

As in I can't promise anything.

In other news, someone gave me a can of sugar free Rockstar today. Have you tried this stuff? It tastes exactly like Nyquil of the cherry variety. I take that nasty stuff only when I am desperate for oxygen during nighttime periods.

It was full of ick.

I won't be rushing out to purchase that anytime soon. Or even later than soon.

Does anyone out there even drink that stuff? Sound off. I'd love to know.

On an emergency basis I will drink a lemonade sugar free AMP, but I rarely do that any longer. Except in a emergency. We call it my Emergency Amp and it's hidden in the suburban know. Emergencies.

And on that note, I think I'll call it a night.


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A Poem to an Abusive Man

I've been doing a bit of research on abuse, domestic violence and how it usually ends. It's not pretty and it's painful and I hurt every time I read another woman's tale of horror.

Did you know that emotional abuse is as detrimental as physical abuse? And that most emotional abusers continue on to become physical abusers? I didn't. I do now. I found a site where formerly abused women, on the path to recovery from their abusers, have written poems. This one below is one that haunted me.

Thank You

You wooed me with poetry
I bit on the hook
Had I only first read
The name of the book

I would have avoided
The very first page
For pages kept turning
Revealing the rage

The ups were a great high
The ride was a bash
But I rode with my eyes closed
To avoid seeing the crash
I knew it would come soon
But I never knew when
The rage and the leaving
And the path to the end

You had to control things
Determined you would
Emotionally destroying me
Every way that you could

Elderly Abuse

I heard a loud thud the other morning around 3:30 a.m. I checked my monitor but he'd once again turned it to the wall so I was unable to see if he was still in bed. I went downstairs right behind my sweet husband and dad was on the living room floor moaning and holding his head. He'd fallen. Hard.

The first picture is the day of the fall. The second is the day after. The black eye keeps blossoming. He has a gash on his head, hidden by his silver hair and he skinned his shoulder/arm. He's a mess.

Was he using his walker? Nope. 85 year old toddlers cannot be told what to do. Or rather, they can be told what to do, they simply won't comply. Ever. In fact they get down right angry and throw fits. It's not pretty.

His physical therapist came to the house the next day and strongly told him to use his walker EACH TIME HE STOOD UP. Has he? Nope. Nyet. He was very angry with me yesterday because I kept asking him to use his walker. Also, I asked him i…



Back on the horse
Monkey on his back
I see no light
Not even a crack
Back to delusions
Back to the lies
I see through his words
He can't hear my cries

Back into his soul
Back into his veins
The poison he pours
Dark liquid his chains

Backed into a corner
Heartbroken and torn
Back into the needle
The eye of the storm

Back to the wall
Soul bruised torn and broken
Back to my pain
His eyes half open

Back into the horror
Will he ever come back
Back into the nightmare
A needle in a sack

Back into his childhood
I loved him with fury
Looking back on his life
His choices my jury

How did this happen
Back to evil and sin
How can he do this
Lines on his skin

Back to my weeping
Back to my sorrow
My son, my love,
Has no more tomorrows
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