The Quill of Samantha Grace Newcastle

cared for

  • Be Yourself….. Be real…..

    The trash man can have the the voices that tell you to toughen up, like feeling deeply is some kind of flaw, like tears are cracks instead of proof that something inside you is alive enough to break.Some of the strongest people I know cry every single day and still get up, still show up,… Read more

  • 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

  • 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

  • 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

  • Deserving of…

    In the front yard where daisies argue with dandelions her laughter is drawing circles in the air catching the wind’s secrets and each smile creates peace that only the wild knows There’s a tree casting shade, it’s bark a patchwork of stories,cracks and knots whispering tales of storms as the reminder that her life is… Read more

  • webbed dust

    dust collects on the edges of memories living room walls grayed with outlines of what was,photographs hang in webbed silence each face frozen in a laugh that no longer resounds Their love as a vase cracked, yet still holding water,the stems of our shared days with petals dry, dead on the floor, they dropped only… Read more

  • Why, How, Reason?

    How do you write, why do you write; I was asked, and so with the weight of the room upon me and in a fragile breath I replied: Affective empathy,partial hyper empathy,I taste the salt of sorrow along with the sweet ache of absence,each word a single cord, becoming either a noose or a safety… Read more