Just a Girl Lost 2

Just a girl lost~ Here I share bits & pieces of me, in poetry, prose, music & posts from writers who inspire me.


The Cat is a Mercenary of LOvE ~

*Lulu, one of our 3 cats

When our cat, the cat belonging only to herself,
deigns to sleep next to me

I feel special & loved
Our cat is a good judge of character.
I believe that Cats know how & who to love.
They’re fluffy, fickle, mercenary creatures.
They pretend not to know you sometimes.
They’re more patient than dogs.
They take their Sweet Cat Time
They’re selective about which lap they wanna lay in.
They definitely hold up in comparison

to Zack, our dog
who follows & gets in their faces
like a jumping bean, bouncing
out of reach NEVER taking the hint,
NEVER getting out of Cat Space,
’til they scratch/whack him.
He’s always in a frenzy of jealousy when they’re around us.

Cats meow when they need or feel.

Zack loves people too much & rarely barks.
He tries to escape anytime he can burst thru the door, whoosh & he’s GONE, on a doggie quest
leaving pee on every mailbox
& if it’s sunny day he rolls around in a special field & comes home smelling of vile, dead things.
Cats don’t roll in manure & toxic muck
They HATE unsanitary things
maybe that makes them smarter?
to be fair, our cat, LuLu loves to lay
on counter tops & book shelves
& 5 out of 10 times she rolls right off
So, maybe Cats & Dogs are evenly matched, a bit smart, a bit stupid in their own unique way.
I adore our dog. He makes better company. He never leaves.


*photos mine.

Our dog Zack & me & just Zack.

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So, I’m going
thru my phone pics & see this.
Rewinding time
to when my kids were little.
We found an abandoned
baby bird & decided to raise it.
I remember the purple
bird poop in our bathroom,
the round the clock feedings
and this photo
of Nick holding the baby bird
while Chloe throws
a tantrum cause
she wants to hold it.



*photo mine


Am I the Same as Other Writers?


Am I the same as other writers?

In the fearless bearing of their souls

On tables of naked thoughts
burnt offerings spread out
as words

bled onto pages
unraveled from the heart

Feelings made flesh
new delicacies of my life
A feast in every drop of ink,
in every sentence and slice,
in every succulent bite
Every piece meant to be savored
swallowed by parted sighs
A delight to a world of kings and queens
A royal court bowed to a kiss bestowed
As they taste each creation
they sate the writer’s hungry soul
Does every writer feel this sublime magic of giving to receive?

Are other writers like me in my inebriation
when another soul reads me?
I get drunk on the wine they drink
to quell the heat of my creations
Desires I feed them in wicked spices and exotic flavors
Every bite meant to inflame, seduce and entice sensate appetites
Bursts of decadent kisses slipped between pieces
of innocent musings and sugary prose
Fiery slivers of lust wrapped in succulent, savory folds
A rare delicacy of raw sensuality in love songs of poetry
Erotic explorations of a side of me held sacred
inspired by my muse written solely to please them
I get drunk on my desire to delight
I am always humbled and happy when others find pleasure
in the power and beauty of language I Love
Are other writers bound by the same feelings of heart?



*thewriterofthewoods: Photo: Maria Tamrazova

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Music and Me


When I’m very sad

music doesn’t comfort me

I can’t get lost

in music

when I’ve lost my joy

When I’m in a pit of despair

with no way in and no way out

I become all numb

I am all types of sadness

Moans I can’t control

rise through my body




poisons escaping

from my lips



I’m blown

into a cocoon

of nothingness

when I’m heartbroken

I want nothing

rescuing me

from the abyss

of darkness

protecting me

Feelings torture me

I bury them deep

in a quiet place

I pull the shades

I sit and stare

a desolate shell

In the dark

I don’t feel the claws

ripping my heart

It only stings a little

when I have the shadows

to hide

my pain and grief

There’s no comfort

to be found

in any song

or symphony

Music is my enemy


the worst beautiful thing

is salt poured into

open wounds


the worst beautiful thing

mocks me

as it reminds me

of all I’m not

no matter which song

my heart tries to sing


the worst beautiful thing

only reminds me I’m beat

I’m unloved

only makes me wanna run

a stake straight thru

the euphoric singer’s heart


That’s the Hate part


When Love comes

’round again


I feel wanted

by another human


I feel connected

to the universe


Music is the

most beautiful place

to be


I seek out

hoping to feel closer

to my person

Losing myself in every piece

Music is the hand

I hold when

another’s hand holds me

I can lose myself


Secure in another’s

adoring heart

My feelings are free

I can sing out loud

at happy things

I can cry tears

of empathy

to the songs

I used to use

to get me thru

another crushed heart

from some boy I once

tried to love

I feel cleansed this time

instead of dead inside

Sadness without

the death of goodbye


is my exquisite healing

Desires I thought forever lost

reborn thru another’s heart

just like the Love

no longer lost


Music and me




*image~ Pretty love by Krzyzanowski





What is the purpose in exposing to strangers what was once held sacred?


There is something disgusting and distasteful in those waxing poetic and nostalgic over a past lover who’s not always an anonymous stranger to others.

There is something unsettling when hidden details & word for word intimate moments are vomited out onto the masses

One betrays the trust of another in poems claiming to pledge eternal adoration

when Twitter and Blogs become a peep show into a private world once reserved for two

There is something putrid and nauseating about knowing all the naked poses and naked whispers and naked promises talked of, texted, salivated over in a relationship long since passed

A heavenly river turned toxic filth when gushed from the tongue of only one, not the other

It is confounding and contemptible to see a past lover’s words being whored out for public consumption

What is the purpose in exposing to strangers what should always be held sacred?

I see no reason to rehash a diary of private moments dead and buried other than to evoke envy or pain or to progress a selfish, desperate agenda

It seems to be nothing more than petty games played by a petty heart

Graceless, classless, and crass with zero respect for another’s moving on

Why would anyone knowingly defile beautiful whispers shared about someone they claim to still love?

I suppose only the sad souls doing it can ever answer those questions

I do know, without doubt,  I will never lower myself to swim in that cesspool of sirens

They represent the worst in all women

On every level they desecrate the poetry of love