The Wasted Writer

I am the wasted writer

Not much of a fighter

Words she wrote and words conveyed

But negative words never went away.

Unsupported in her journey is how she felt

She hoped these writings would lead to her wealth

Instead it cost her, her health.

Poor mistaken writer

They only wanted to fight her

And call her names

And say strange things

Putdowns, and horrific thoughts was all she was told

Nothing great or good. "She never was bold."

Enough, to put her foot down and chase this venture

The dream since childhood is all she could remember.

Gifted and educated were just words

But did not open the door for her

All of life's abuse kept its foot in it

And rage held the doorknob

She, got screwed, by love.

Rescinded

Can one candle illuminate darkness in a large room?

Or just the space that it is in?

That is me on the big dark stage called life

Holding a little candle

Hoping to be seen

Hoping someone will peer hard enough into the darkness and say, I see someone over there

Can my whispers be heard in time?

Can they hear the clicking of the keyboard?

Or is that room sealed shut

And no one comes in anymore.

Has my performance been cancelled?

Did I miss to many performances?

How many times was I called but did not answer

Did I miss too many buses? Did I get off on the wrong exit?

People no longer believe in me

They look at me and shake their head

Poor girl doesn't know she is dead.

In the weakness I hear the wheels rolling in

And the panels are alighted.

And then I hear, Clear!

People dig in a little deeper to destroy me

They never see

Who I am

Only what they believe from the past

I wasn't there

"My younger years do not define this woman."

How can the punishment be the same?

When the emotions have moved on.

Never tell a man your secrets

He will reveal them to your soul.

Lesions

Why won't the past go

I don't love you no more

I want you out right now

I can't even gain strength

With another face

And another place

Rehashing dead things expecting me to live

How much more must I give?

To prove, to get away, and destroy that ugly beast called past?

I will be great

I know that's what they hate

About me

They can't see

What part they play

They didn't see it then and they sure won't understand it today

But one day this girl that you criticized

And gave black eyes

Will see through broken teeth and swollen lips

This

Is who I am. Not. "Who I am."

Don't you understand.

Damn

People try separate dying from living

We are all dying every day.

Death is always an invitation back to the past.

Biography:

My name is Mary Alice Barnes. I am the 7^th child of 18 brothers and sisters. I was born and raised in upstate NY in the town of Waterloo.

I graduated high school and college many years ago and I am a proud mom of 5 children.

My father died suddenly from a heart attack on May 9^th, 1967 when I was 11 years old. My mother is a beautiful, strong independent woman even now at the age of 90.

I didn't quite start out as a writer in my early days; my first love was, art. For every day that I was abused and feeling empty I would create images at every opportunity available in the dirt, on paper or with images in the sky, trying to express what I was feeling. Even though my imagination was quite colorful and amusing it still did not fill the emptiness I felt inside.

I picked up my pen of pain at the age of 18 after being raped while on my first date. My first poem was, The Tiny Light. I eventually wrote a book based on that experience which I rightfully titled: "The Rape Book."

As I went through life other horrific events began to happen and I would write madly every day at work or home on napkins, envelopes and anything I could get my hands on. I slept with pen and paper and would get up early in the mornings trying to find expression and when I couldn't find the words I would close my eyes and sit at my computer and let my fingers put it on paper.

In doing so I found a pain much deeper than that night. It started so very long ago. My first deeply embedded memory was sitting on the basement steps in the dark trying to peer through the darkness chanting the only prayer I knew; Now I lay me down to sleep. I was five.

From that time on I began to sit at my computer with closed eyes writing one book of poetry or story after the next.

My very first published book is: Ready or Not Here He Comes

It is a story of inspiration and many talks with God. I wrote it in less than a day when the pain would not cease.

I write without rules. At times my words are all lower case, Caps or run ons. because that was the way pain felt at that time. It was also the reason I never sought out publishers in the past for fear they would want it to follow the rules of professional writings. Even though pain has no rules or restrictions, it shares no instructions and comes forth on the brightest of days when the mind is most hopeful. It interrupts the soul and traps the mind in a whirlwind of fear and hopelessness.

About the book:

Title of the book: Do You Know Where Happiness Lives?

Deals with brokenness from the past to the present

Each chapter opens with a poem written sporadically and honestly to engage the reader in what will happen next.

It is my hope that this book will encourage and inspire those that are going through similar events to find that pain in their life and heal whatever it is that is keeping them from being successful.

I don't know if I will ever be given anything more in my life it seems my contract has expired. And my funds have been expelled do to non-usage, not faith and non-belief. He gives me so much yet I ask for so little

Limiting even life's simple desires such as happiness.

As though I am some example for the world to see this huge bandage draped across my face; deleted from a society that refuses to hear my words. Repressed yet progressed with the constant strain of going forth. It is an un yielding message that will not cease nor find rest in its lengthy analogies. It speaks only to be heard, and listens for life's sounds, waiting on the right tone to be free.

I can still feel Stephen squeezing my hand beneath the table as though he is encouraging me to tell his very short story of life. He is my guide of understanding and his pure childish charm is what I will never forget. Stephen speaks when Michael is silent.

God does not toy with our grief nor look in our mirror of hope shaking His finger at us. We wear these bandages and labels as though they will grant us some great excuse as to why we have failed and continue the same path of destruction lashing out at life as though it will yield to our conditions.

Greatness has never started out to be great. it takes the hardest of circumstances to bond with greatness and form strength.

In this life of one instance we mustn't leave a legacy of indifference; We are the strongest beings that God has handed a script un like any others. There is a very thin line between joy and pain yet many don't know how to get back to that successful image in the mirror. We only see the physical not the spiritual.

She liked Chris and one day asked if he wanted to go with her to the dance. Chris blushed and said ok. Mary smiled.

3^rd person objective internal thoughts are not told ex: based on actions or dialogue.

Chris slowly walked to Mary with his head held low. So you want to go with me he said reluctantly. Yes she said and I felt loved.

Omni=all scient=knowing

Writer tells more than one characters thoughts or feelings

Mary had like Stephen since the 5^th grade but wasn't sure if he liked her. So she wrote him a letter one day asking if he loved or liked her. Stephen circled love. She felt like a band of butterflies had flown into her stomach. Looking across the table at one another Stephen smiled.

3^rd person limited tells thoughts and feeling of 1 character only.

Mary loved Stephen since 5^th grade but never found the nerve to tell him

But one day while sitting in the class alone she told him how she felt. So do you like me Stephen looked at me and said yes. It made me smile.