“Just because your pain is understandable, doesn’t mean your behavior is acceptable.”

I ran across this quote (Steve Maraboli, Unapologetically You: Reflections on Life and the Human Experience) and couldn’t agree more. I’m sure most of you have known those people before. The ones who have certain issues in their life whether they are health related or personal and you feel for them, you want to feel for them, but they treat everyone around them horribly where it just makes it hard. Sure everyone has their bad days. I have plenty. And if you’re dealing with some kind of hardship, then that’s going to push you to the edge quite a bit. I completely understand. However, I can’t help but admire people who deal with some very terrible hardships, yet refuse to take it out on the people around them. Especially the ones who are helping, or are just trying to be there for them. Or how about those of us who have been around this type of person who is dealing with a hardship for years, and yet if you don’t cater to their feelings at every moment, then you’re just a horrible heartless person? Never mind all the good things you’ve done for them. You need to be at their beck and call otherwise- forget it.  We’re all human so we’re bound to slip up, but everyone is fighting their own battles, even if they don’t express their struggles as loudly as others do, so just show a little courtesy and respect and remember you’re not the only one who has it tough.

Obviously there’s someone in my life that is a prime example and has me spewing my thoughts right now. It’s tough because I want to be there for this person, and I’ve tried to, but the harshness and cruelty that comes from them, and the way that this behavior is backed up because of what they have to go through…no. I don’t think so. I go through my own share of pain and difficulties and do they know about it? Of course not. For one thing, this person is so wrapped up in their own life, that it wouldn’t matter if I did express my battles, and secondly, I don’t like any difficulties I have to become my crutch. My illnesses, my hardships, they’re not everything I am. They will never be my excuse for if I treat others cruelly. I don’t think anyone should use this as an excuse. Will I screw up every once in awhile and let them get the best of me? Sure. But if I do, you better believe I’ll feel bad about it and I’ll try my best to fix what I did if I hurt someone who has been there for me.  

And I’m done ranting for the day. Whew, that feels better. 

Thank you, old fairy in the second-hand shop

April is National Poetry Month and ever since college, I found myself falling in love with poetry. That was when, I believe my junior year, I just really dove into it in my literature class. Usually my classes consisted of me drawing or daydreaming away, but not my literature classes. Those kept me spellbound. I had thought I was never a poetry person until that junior year. Whatever it was, the poems just really jumped off the page and captured my attention. The hidden meanings, the beautiful imagery, I just couldn’t get enough. Some favorites included Alfred Lord Tennyson’s Lady of Shallott, Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s Kubla Khan, Robert Browning’s Porphyria’s Lover, and Edgar Allen Poe’s The Raven and Annabel Lee. There are a good bit more, but as of right now, those are in my mind. There is one, however, that has always stuck with me and makes me realize that my love for poetry perhaps didn’t begin in college. It only flourished then. Looking back, I have realized it began with this lovely poem I cherished. My mother would read to me out of this old fairy tale book and while I loved all the stories and poems, this one here I loved above all others. 

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This is actually what it looked like in the book. Below is the poem since it’s a bit hard to read in the image. 

The Second-Hand Shop

by Rowena Bennett

Down in the grasses

Where the grasshoppers hop

And the katydids quarrel

And the flutter-moths flop–

 

Down in the grasses

Where the beetle goes “plop,”

An old withered fairy

Keeps a second-hand shop.

 

She sells lost thimbles

For fairy milk pails

And burnt-out matches

For fence posts and rails. 

 

She sells stray marbles

To bowl on the green, 

And bright scattered beads

For the crown of the queen. 

 

Oh, don’t feel badly

Over things that you lose

Like spin tops or whistles

Or dolls buckled shoes;

 

They may be things that 

Fairy folk can use:

For down in the grasses

Where the grasshoppers hop

A withered old fairy 

Keeps a second-hand shop. 

 

I had this poem read over and over to me as I would picture this old withered fairy deep down in the grasses holding her shop in my yard. And when I did lose things of mine, I didn’t worry too much since I knew she would make good use of them. Because of this poem, I was able to have a fascination with the beauty of poetry that only grew as I was introduced to more and more inspiring works of art. 

 

Happy National Poetry Month to all the poets out there that I have had the pleasure of reading and discovering their work on some amazing blogs!

Happy Easter to all, and to all a goodnight!

Happy Easter to everyone! There was a brief moment in time between my love of Halloween and Christmas that Easter was my favorite. Something about waking up and seeing that once empty basket magically filled with treats next to my bed; then finding the brightly colored eggs that had been dyed while I was sleeping, now hidden throughout the forest. Oh, and of course there’s the whole true meaning of Easter, but when I was a kid, it was all about the eggs and candy. (My lack of a religious background always shines through when these holidays come up. Although, I’m not in anyway being disrespectful. I’ve always been open minded when it comes to everyone’s different beliefs.) This year, like the past few years, I was nowhere near family, and didn’t get to partake in any Easter festivities, but that’s okay because I got to get creative with a few housing decorations.

First, this little structure that I put together. I love orchids and I found these bamboo-type reeds at World Market, so I took a large candle holder and decided to spruce up the empty old wooden stool I rescued at one point. I swear it looks better in person. I even had to try and filter the image because my first thought when seeing the photo was “well, that doesn’t look impressive at all.”

imageThen I look some interesting wine bottles (am I the only one that buys wine based on how cool the bottle is?) that I had saved and decided to stick some gold candles in them to go on the table.

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So, now that I’ve shared some of my decorating (or more like lack of) skills I hope everyone did something fun on this holiday whether you were with family, loved ones, or just by yourself. Oops, did I put family and loved ones as two different things? Oh well.

 

 

Forgive Me, Hera

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Forgive me, Hera, I’ve stolen him again, 

He came to me with muscles of stone and luxurious hair growing far past his chin. 

I didn’t want him, no wait that’s a lie. 

tried not to want him but he had a visage that would make you cry. 

Yes, that’s right, cry and moan, my knees would tremble as I begged for his mercy. 

The way his eyes bore into mine made me question my morals with uncertainty. 

Oh, the passion! The longing! Those sensual words that would tumble from his lips,

He’d whisper intensely in my ear and tell me all the things he would do to me if I were his. 

Forgive me, Hera, I know he’s yours, 

The last thing I want to be is another one of his simple mortal whores. 

But what am I to do when his fingers caress me with a touch as soft as silk?

My mind I considered to be of good faith betrays me and leaves me with guilt.

It’s a game of wanting, this I know, with such undeniable pulverizing heartache,

When I sleep, I see him, our bodies conjoined, this is real it’s something my senses cannot shake.

Now here I am, gripping the Earth, imploring my head to stop its lustful spin,

But he’s already coming toward me, this god of a man, who knows I’ll obey his every whim.

Forgive me, Hera, falling for him was never part of the plan,

But please, for once, could you blame him just a little? For the rest of us are only human.  

 

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Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie Tale Weaver’s Prompt #4

 

The Queen of Unseeing Falsehood

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Tom Bagshaw

 

One by one I’ll gouge them out, each and every eye.

Keep them shielded from the truth, encompassed with an elated crush.

If they cannot see me then, how will they divulge this lie?

Surrounded daily by my lovers, all my companions are here.

Dancing, laughing, keeping time,

They think me the queen, their Nefertiti, oh- they hold me so dear!

How magnificent, how stunning, I must remain to those who cannot see.

I can hide the ugly, the villainous thoughts, the way my eyes shift about,

Because all these friends blinded with avidity, have no idea what a danger I can be.

Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie Photo Challenge #4

On Dandelion Wishes

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Every time I pass a dandelion, so beautiful and white, a little puff of snow floating above it’s earthy grassy surface, I have to pick it. I have to place it in front of my ready lips, close my eyes, and think of what my heart most desires. I’ve been doing this since I was a child. I still do it now, I just can’t help it. Wishes have changed quite bit for me.

They’ve gone from:

“Let me have red hair like my favorite cartoon character.”

“Let me go home and find a kitten waiting for me.

“Let me grow up and become a famous actress.

“Please let me grow up and become beautiful.

Let me find true love.

And have currently been:

“Just let me be happy.”

I become mesmerized just watching those tiny dancing fairies swirl through the air and frolic in the breeze; carrying my wish off to far away places where magic resides, where my request can be granted. What is it that I find so magical, so fascinating about these glorious little shoots? Is it because I was told that when you blow on them, all your wishes will be granted? Is it because deep down inside I believe in the beauty of magic and despite everything, I hold onto that undying hope that dreams really do come true? Have my dreams come true? No. But I’m still trying. Maybe other children were told this same tale. Maybe they, too, would select these little wonders and marvel at their mystery as they floated off into the heavens. But has this ceased as they entered the world of adults? Do they still take the time, like I do, even when I’m in the city and in a rush, and my eye happens to catch a glimpse of frosted sphere on the side of the street, to stop? Do they reach over for their childhood? Do they reach for the enchantment that lives deep within and despite the negativity, despite the hardened attitude they have taken on, do they close their eyes and send their wishes out into this world full of hope and desire?

I like to think they do. I like to think, no matter what, when we all see a chance to dream and wish for better, we still do.

Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie Fairy Tale Prompt #3

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Yellow Feather: High on Smoke and Mirrors

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Lying alone in this irksome forest, my eyes closed, yet my mind wide awake. I hate it here. I loathe it here. Every aspect of it a decaying mass. But what is this now that drifts so low I can feel it brush against my nose? Golden feather, yellow feather. Glorious, iridescent feather. Where have you come from? Holding it against me, feeling its biting touch, its fragrant smell. Inside my mouth it tastes of Heaven, if it does indeed exist. Then all is black. I’m no longer present. Where have I gone?

No, I’m here, I’m still alive. 

The vibrant colors that flow back and forth beckon me.

Come, follow us, they seem to chant with childlike voices dipped in evil harmony.

There it is. I know I must go. A gate, so rusty yet once must have been of pure gold.

Perhaps, this is it. My Heaven. This portal that I have been seeking all a long. I’ll take a look.

If I don’t like it, surely then I can return.

Ah, but the gate swings closed. It’s sealed tight. It won’t even budge despite my might.

Don’t be afraid! Come! They cry. Those little wispy joys that pulse such a radiance so divine.

I follow them, deeper into the light. I find myself grateful my egress has betrayed me.

Sugary sweet, lustful, and spirited. My mind is blasted with every alluring secret.

I spin, I twirl, on this never ending high. I will never come down, what a far better life. 

I can float, I can fly, I feel no pain. I dance and dance and open my arms to embrace this Arcadia.

But what is this that whimpers underneath that vast array of brilliance?

Oh no, they say. Come play! Come play! They shout and cry. And pull me far away.

But again, it’s there, a sickening moan.

A familiar sob that sends shivers down the warmth of my spine. 

I draw so close I can feel it near. The colors shrill and shriek in my ear.

Their grandeur now has dimmed and grayed. What I thought they were is now no more. 

And there it lies beneath the dark, the vision of my own self, open mouthed and gaunt. 

Lying in the forest she is alone. Her eyes aghast in blank stare.

Her lips tremble with a soundless word. 

No longer splendor in the sky, but the darkening angry swirl of this deceptive storm. 

I place my hand on that golden light that shines from those lips of death. 

And with it I remove a single feather. 

I’m still here. Lying alone in this welcoming forest, with open eyes and fingers grasping the ground. What is that brushing me, touching me, ever so lightly on my arm? It is the feather. Plain, colorless, bitter feather. A feather that I will take no more and watch it float away from me, through the beauty of this forest light. A beauty I have never seen before.

Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie Tale Weaver’s #3