Nancy Ann Creed

  Photo by John-Mark Smith on Pexels.com A Simple Text, a Phone Call, a Letter To reach out to you would be so easy, A simple text, a phone call, a letter even. "How are you?", but I know that wouldn't do. It's been too long, too much water under the bridge. So I'll just sit here and miss you instead, Relive the memories we made, the good times we shed, The laughs we shared, the tears we cried. I'll hold onto those moments forever, inside. I know that you're out there somewhere, Living your life, making new memories, But I can't help but wonder if you ever think of me. Do you ever miss me the way I miss you? I'll never know the answer to that question, But I'll continue to hold onto the hope that one day, We'll find our way back to each other, And pick up where we left off, like no time has passed. Until then, I'll just keep missing you, And hope that you're doing well. More Works by Nancy Ann Creed Th...

Photo by  Greg Rakozy  on  Unsplash Sponges and the Soul Some people are like sponges. They soak up whatever is around them, And then pour it out on others. When they are with good people, They absorb your goodness, And then pour it out on others. When they are around toxic people, They become like them, And then pour it out on others. Don’t be a sponge. Know who you are. Beware of sponges and always be the good person So the sponges can soak up your goodness. More Works by Nancy Ann Creed https://books2read.com/u/m25Ygdv

  Photo by Eric Goverde on Pexels.com The jarring, insistent shriek, An alarm clock's metallic cry, Assaults the fragile morning's peace, A painful echo in the sky Of my dark skull. I groan, a sound Instantly swallowed by the deep, Heavy silence all around, I try to meld back into sleep. A cruel hand pulls, a rhythmic beat, From sleep's warm, velvet, soft embrace, It snatches me, with sudden heat, And leaves my heart against my face. My eyes fly open, dark and blank, Staring up at the ceiling's shade, My body, safe within the bank Of blankets, a fortress I have made. But now the cold kiss starts to creep, A sharp, unwelcome morning chill, That pricks the skin I cannot keep Beneath the covers, lying still. With weariness, I fight the day, The first act: pull the fabric high, To hide, to make the light away, And plunge into a private sky. No. It can't possibly be now, Time is a thief that steals the night, I want to vanish, somehow, From all the expectations ...

  Photo by cottonbro studio on Pexels.com Acceptance is the Key The weight of a thousand eyes presses down, A silent, ceaseless judgment that I drown Within. I worry too much, an endless loop Of anxious thoughts, a psychological stoop About how others see me—the fleeting glance, The subtle shift, the judgment they advance. Each interaction is a stage, a test, Where my own self-worth is put to the best Or worst assessment by an external gauge. I turn each minor slip into a mental cage. I worry too much, an unrelenting fear, About whether they like me, holding me dear, Or casting me aside with cold indifference. The need for approval is a fierce presence, A hunger I can never seem to appease, Searching for acceptance on every breeze. I worry too much, the constant, weary drain, About what others think, the imagined stain They see upon my character or my name. This scrutiny I project is a cruel game, Where I am both the player and the prize, Obsessed with the mirrors in other peop...

  Photo by Ismael Sánchez on Pexels.com I am broken. The words, sharp and unwarranted, slice through the fragile shell I built. Tiny, invisible blades, their power immense, carving my heart into scattered, irreparable pieces. My carefully constructed dreams, ambitious plans, vital goals— all crumble before this onslaught, a lifetime of building reduced to dust. My essence, fractured, lies on the cold floor. Why do these ephemeral sounds, mere vibrations in the air, hurt so? Why grant them such devastating power, to tear the fabric of our being, to leave us utterly immobilized? With a deep, shuddering breath, I rise. Muscles protest, heavy with despair. I kneel, picking mangled, bleeding pieces from the unforgiving floor, cradling the remnants, a silent cry. I try, with feverish intensity, to mend— reaching for glue, tape, harsh staples. But none of them hold. The cracks are too deep, the breaks too fundamental. A heart shattered by words cannot be fixed by physical objects...