The Quill of Samantha Grace Newcastle

bitter

  • The healer dies!

    Tonight’s writing is part reflection, part elegy, and it says something many healers, empaths, and compassionate people experience but rarely express out loud: the exhaustion that comes from always being the giver, never the receiver. The healer was never meant to mend their own wounds, not the ones hidden in the heart, nor the quiet… Read more

  • I watched, painfully

    I sat and watched you draw your last breath, Dear Mother -A fragile whisper lost in a fading glow, 5 months and 7 days later with daddy’s hand in mine, I faced his death, in silent anguish, in tears and screams of anger. my heart laid bare by your deaths, now  in woe that is… Read more

  • Tired 7 6 5 4

    Life drags my body moves because it knows nothing else to do, yet breathing hurts like a fracture that never mends.The nights stretch, each one longer, the stars nothing but cold eyes watching What was once warmth is only dust now, slipping through my fingers as the mirror does not lie, a hollow face, pale… Read more

  • Weeping? for?

    Today, I weep,then sleep,then weep againlike that lost sock from the laundry as I sit alone; the weight of the world sits deep within my emotions I reach for the remote yet the TV screen feels like a cruel joke, laughter without warmth,voices from other lives, all pretend I try to hold on,but the walls… Read more

  • Metus impotentiae

    In the brightness of midnight,the floorboards creak as silently I hear deliberate whispers beneath my feet; a harbinger of something unseen Internal secrets,breath held tight,the air has a scent, seemingly metallic and bitter,and unspoken fears are gnawing like rats at the edges of the mind What lies in the empty room that people all avoid?… Read more

  • windmills and tornados

    I watched ,from the shadows of a room, her performance and dance was to die for, to believe: yet it became a feast for wolves dressed in wool Each face a mask painted with smiles,but beneath the surface,the lies like pecan tree roots twisting through the soil of my desire to be loved, simply loved… Read more

  • the axe and the heart

    my heart is growing teeth sharp and jagged, chewing and gnawing at what was once tender and now the bitterness of years gone by is no better than cold coffee the axe head came to my forest and I was oblivious because the handle was wooden, and I never paid attention to the whispers of… Read more