Voice of the Meadow's Journal

[voice of the meadow]

003
Peace of Mind

The world is a scary place. Out on my own in it, I'm often finding myself looking over my shoulder or checking every lock.

Watching the news makes it worse. Reporters discussing rapes, murders, break-ins, and assaults.

I often think back to the days, back before I knew the things that happened out in "the real world". Those days when I was a child, unafraid of people, unafraid of what they could do to me.

Oh, what I would give to have that peace of mind returned to me.  

[voice of the meadow]

004
Childhood Memories

POV of a character from one of my stories.

I don't remember anything before the age of ten. I remember being near the dusty street, laying on the ground next to the door to a root cellar. The cool air underground made it slightly cooler there, as opposed to the oppressive heat everywhere else.

It hadn't rained in days--that much was obvious from the dust drifting above the roads and catching on everyone's clothing and on the surfaces of the buildings.

I was hiding from someone, but I couldn't remember who, and honestly, I couldn't bother to try to remember or do anything else. I was bone tired, and all I wanted to do was sleep, but the heat wouldn't allow for a moment's reprieve.

So I laid there, next to a cellar door, not moving, barely breathing, and trying my hardest not to exist, until he came along and found me.  

[voice of the meadow]

005
Speed

Not posting this one for reasons of first rights in publication. For today's, I wrote a scene in one of my novels, in which the protagonist is trying to drive safely enough that he does not endanger the others in his car while still going quickly enough to arrive in time to save the life of one of his best friends.  

[voice of the meadow]

006
Mayhem

(Wow, I'm up late. I only have 18 minutes left before midnight. Better get writing so I don't miss out on today's piece. Also, my anxiety has been so bad lately, which I think come out in this short little poem.)


Mayhem
found inside the disordered mind
thoughts too loud
and confused
no way to sort
or understand each one

Under the surface
the thoughts brew
and take over
as panic begins  

[voice of the meadow]

007
Gilding a Lily

(1 week! And today's poem really didn't go in the direction that I intended it...)

I often wonder,
seeing things praised
made more than
what they are

Is it all worthwhile?
Or are we searching
for meaning in nothing

or trying to make words
for what needs none.