A place to be who I am
no walls to hold me
no chains to bind me
A light in the
of my soul
long searched for
No longer alone
no one cared
until I found
thoughts of many
are kept by keepers
the value of
Crystal R. Cook
Going through more old files I came across this one . . . It’s filled with a wee bit of affectation, but I was fifteen when I wrote it, I vaguely remember it being a writing assignment.
The End of Her Pain
Her weapon of choice was words. Words forged from the icy steel of her anger. She stared quietly at him, through him. He felt uncomfortable and vulnerable as her eyes penetrated deep into his soul. She spoke not, simply let her eyes talk in the absence of voice.
The biting silence was nearly enough to tear him apart. He felt his hands trembling as anxiety began to blanket the air about him. It seemed an eternity had passed before he felt the sting of her first blow.
“I can no longer bear the torment of what you call love.” she finally spoke and he felt he’d been struck so hard he should fall from the force it.
“I no longer wish to be shackled in the prison of your heart,” as the words darted from her lips his pulse quickened, confusion and anger wrestled within him. “The cold and darkness of it has dulled my senses and robbed my soul of peace.” Her monotone voice made him uneasy in his own skin.
He searched for words of his own to defend himself, no words would lend themselves to his desperation. His pleading eyes looked to hers for mercy but found none. She remained unstirred and unmoved by his obvious plight. If anything, she revelled in it.
A flurry of questions raged within him. Had he turned this sweet soul so sour and bitter? What had he done to deserve such an attack? His mind raced for the answers he longed for. The answers did come, for the first time it was clear to him. As his smug arrogance began to fade from the reality of her pain, he realized what he had not done for her was the abuse she’d endured for so long.
Always he had thought wounds were made with anger and harsh words, or the pounding of a fist. Now, in his memories, he so clearly recalls all he had chosen to ignore in the past. He sadly sits and thinks of how her lovely smile would fade when he dismissed her dreams. He saw for the first time the many tears that had fallen as he turned from her in times of need. He felt guilt for all the times everything else had been more important than her.
In his newfound clarity of mind he knew the damage he had done. Years of neglect and selfishness had left far worse a wound than any weapon could have delivered. He wanted redemption. He wanted to fall to his knees and beg for her forgiveness, but his arrogant pride had not yet been fully broken, he couldn’t bring himself to do the only thing that could end this torment.
She looked into his eyes and knew she did not have to speak another word. She could plainly see in his desperation she had bruised him, but as she turned to walk away from him, forever, she simply said, “I hope you find happiness.”
As the distance between them grew they both knew he never would. She’d made sure of that. Somehow her words had changed him, he now felt unworthy of happiness. He’d taken his chance and tossed it foolishly aside in the blind assumption he could do no wrong.
He’d taken her love for granted. When the petals of her love began to wither and fall he crushed them beneath his feet. He could have saved the beautiful flower of her love, he could have quenched her thirst and filled her world with light, but he didn’t. He left her to wilt in his shadow and now, nothing would ever grow where she’d once been.
She felt the slightest twinge of pity for him, knowing the misery she’d left him to. He would forever walk alone with his thoughts of what was, what could have been, and what will never be. As she raised her eyes toward the sun, taking in the warmth of it once again, she knew her pain and sorrow was forever ended and his had only just begun.
Crystal R. Cook 1985
In the serenity
of sweet silence,
a passing muse
this plane of
With pen in hand,
I wrap my soul
in the warmth,
in the release
of my spirit,
that perfect place
to my every
in the peace
I fly without fear,
as my wings,
and free . . .
Crystal R. Cook
As long as there are words, there will be someone at the ready with their quill of choice to pen them. Words have always been, and words will always be . . . so we write.
I write because it sustains me, it brings me peace. I write so I will live on in my words when my time on earth has passed. My voice immortalized forever upon a page in hopes the children of my grandchildren may one day hear me and know who I once was. I hope they know when they hold my words in their hearts, they are holding me.
Writing is the sweetest of freedoms. It breaks the chains which try to bind us to this world. It is freedom to release and let go of angst or anger, sadness or fear. Freedom to soar above this plane of existence and reach heights never before reached. When we write we are free to be all of who we are when the world seeks to quell our voices.
I must share the words that well within me. I must write of my joys and my sorrows, my memories and my dreams. I must share the knowledge I have gained and I must write to learn, for there is much to be learned. In my words I am real. No pretences, no expectations and no judgments.
To some, writing is as essential as the air around them, each word a life-sustaining breath, a beat of their heart. Words hold healing for the one who writes them as well as the one who reads them; there is power in each stroke of the pen. The written word is a gift of greatest worth.
Writers teach, they entertain, they inspire and they motivate, they capture and they captivate. If writers ceased to give life to words, knowledge would no longer be gained, memories would fade, and the most important of things would be forever forgotten.
Some writers learn to write, honing their craft to create, others were born with the blessing of words ready to flow from their fingertips, all share their gift with the world, leaving the mark of their soul on humanity. Many writers have helped mold the lives of those who read their words. People are shaped, in no small part, by what they read in life; they carry the words within them. Enlightenment is often found in the pages of a book, a simple thought, printed and bound, can be a life changing epiphany for someone else. What greater gift could a writer give or receive? I can think of none better.
Writers must write. I truly don’t think there are words enough to explain just why we dance this dance with words. We simply must write . . .
Crystal R. Cook