Terrible Beginnings

Sarah Doughty

“Some of the most beautiful things
can indeed come from
terrible beginnings.”

So here’s the thing about living with the resulting memories after years of torment. It’s hell, for lack of a better term. In some instances, I’m able to daydream with my eyes open. To tap into the most beautiful, fictional universes, where I can experience whatever my heart desires. I’m able to use this light — at times — to bite back when I get knocked down. Proof that some of the most beautiful things can indeed come from terrible beginnings. At other times — most of the time, it seems — I’m getting eaten alive by the reminders of my past. And the paralyzing amount of anxiety I feel just keeps building. After years of struggling, I’m tired. But I have no choice but to keep fighting. Anything less would be admitting defeat.

© Sarah Doughty


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Just poetry

A Faded Romantic's Notebook


my poetry

is just poetry.

It is not

a song

from my soul.

It is not

a yearning

cry for help.

It is not

the burning

of desire.

It is not

a statement

of intent.

It is not


about you.

It is not

how I feel

right now.


my poetry

is just poetry.

A jumble

of words

I strung





© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Written a year ago. Still true. Except for the many times when it is not just poetry.

Art by Victor Bauer

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Lost in the shadows of my past


Each one of us have felt that cold feeling at least once in our life,

the thought that makes our body shiver

and leaves us with sleepless never ending nights.

When we sit idle or hours, our brain starts to stimulate the past records of our memories which are diluted in the horrors of shame, heartbreaks, regrets and failures. Things that we use to evade seems to surround us when we’re alone.

How ironic the fact is when we state that we know the world and yet we remain a mystery to ourselves.

When we’re up till midnight thinking about our past that we could’ve changed, a part of us that keeps reciting the same page of the same chapter everyday, coming to the same conclusion and for what ? Just to make sure we’re precise about our decision to be true?

Holding onto something for long becomes a…

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Watching the world from my window

Charmed Chaos

I watch the world from my window and despite
All the news today ~ more people dying
The whole world crying
Signs of spring are everywhere

Every morning the thrashers come pecking
At the block of peanut suet to feed
Their fledglings in tow
With tiny gaping mouths they wait
In earnest for their treat
Ruffling their feathers as they eat

The radish seeds are coming up
It’s only been a short week
The rains have been a blessing
For everything in the garden
Is blossoming and brilliant green

In early dawn hours, a dove crashed into the window
Trying to escape the talons of a Cooper’s hawk
Leaving wispy feathers stuck on paned glass
But there was no escape, no where to go

I understand the bird’s plight

Earthweal Weekly Challenge SILVER LININGS

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Flaking Legends – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon



Photo: gdaypubs.com.au The former One Tree hotel in Hay.

“While all old people have been young, no young people have been old, and this troubling factor engenders the frustration of all parents and elders, which is that while you can describe your experience, you cannot confer it.”  Andrew Solomon

Flaking Legends

An incomplete picture,
flaking legends,
broken frames and corry,
the place of rusted stories
the utterances of elders
railing conformities,
shaping new spirals
of futures undreamed,
incomplete visions verging,
questioning what we know,
let alone what we believed,
myths of belle époque
passing in the night
as we swept history aside
and made our own songs.

©Paul Vincent Cannon

Paul, pvcann.com.

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