Poetry Friday: Average Grace

Average Grace

Fingers pinch at the tips
nerves scream
nails scrape across rough wires
voice strains on highs and lows
muscles stiffen and burn
neck aches

no one I can see can hear me
but my pain brings a circle of ghosts
drawn to the history I share
through song

Poetry Friday: 11:42 p.m.

11:42 p.m.

You think you’re fed up
with all these late-night haiku?
Try writing them, pal.

amidst ashes: surviving suicide

I wrote this piece for Young Mormon Feminists but it totally applies to y’all, my original readers. Much love!

Young Mormon Feminists

In recognition of September being National Suicide Prevention Month

Last year I got this close to killing myself, but I survived.

It hurts to talk, to think about the experience. I went to BYU for a semester and within a few months I was severely depressed—on the brink of suicide. My lifelong perfectionism had finally caught up with me, and it was tightening around my neck in an invisible noose. They were dark times, endless days of pain I can’t even put into words. It hurt to breathe. It hurt to wake up. There was no rest for my soul; not in prayer, in conversation, in closeness. An untouchable emptiness inside me itched constantly. I got headaches from clenching my teeth from anxiety. I moved through the days with a constant wish that a car would flatten me.

I made feeble attempts to live, one of which was joining a BYU therapy…

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Poetry Friday: White Ribbons

White Ribbons

The white house on the corner,
with lavender blooms tracing the fence till
fall, where the little girl had worn her
hair up, hiding behind her sharpened pencil.

Worn her hair up, blonde curls in white ribbons. Molly
read her fairytales in the treetops, dreaming
of walnuts, and castles, and red trolleys.
Sunlight poured through curtain leaves; shining, streaming.

Sunlight poured onto old story pages, shafts of
gold on black print. Molly swung her feet, her
hands on low branches, and through the air her laughter
fell upon the ears of Peter.

Her laughter fell, but sighed soft now,
quiet like a hymn in church. But Peter, all he
did was smile and walk, turning down
the lane, and behind him treaded Molly.

Turning down the lane, he began to run,
his feet barely touching earth. Molly
watched with wide eyes; she had come
from her fairytales, quiet like snowflakes, following.

Come from her fairytales, blonde curls in white
ribbons, and she looked at the sky.
She untied her hair, wore it down, reflecting light.
Peter taught her to run; she learned how to fly.

* * *

The white house on the corner,
with gentle blossoms on trees where birds
sang, where the little girl had worn her
hair up, hiding behind her whispered words.

White ribbons on low branches, sunbeams on blonde curls.
A book between their laps, children dreamed of
warm raindrops in August. A boy and girl
read softly to each other, learning how to love.

Getting Doodley

(Hey, y’all, I wanted to try this form of blogging. It’s probably a one-time thing.)

I call myself Maney and I like to write. I’m learning guitar, I love ice cream, and sea otters are my favorite animals. I doodle so much it’s not even funny. During school, during church, in my journal, etc. So I wanted to see if I could share them a little via the blogging platform.


At school I doodle because I am bored bored bored BORED. My mind wanders and I get distracted. I hate sitting in the classroom and listening to droning teachers. I feel so exposed. At church I doodle because I get anxious, or I’m so tired and I’m trying to keep myself awake. And sometimes it makes me feel less lonely. It’s hard to talk to people.


Some days I can hardly say a word. Other days I can be gregarious because I feel okay, or I see myself in the other solitary sitters. I can talk to them. One shy person at a time is usually not too hard to talk to.


At home I spend a lot of time watching TV series when I feel lonely, anxious, hopeless, etc. It’s fun having friends you can always count on. I try to do dishes or fold laundry or clean my room, because ironically, watching TV makes me feel guilty for wasting time.


Also I have depression.


Spiders are one of my many enemies, right up there with ringing phones, cold spoons scraping together, and death.


My family doesn’t appreciate when I smash a spider but then refuse to throw away the dead body. (Carcass?) I feel I’ve been brave enough to get rid of the little monster–why should I be expected to touch it, ever?


This is a family portrait. I am the one on the top right. My right. Wha–


I also have a lot of plants in my room, tiny palm trees and cacti. I like flowers too but I always forget to water them, so I just stick to keeping these more desert-y plants. I talk to them out loud when I water them. They make my room smell nice, like soil.


The end. Goodnight.


Comment or like this madness below if you appreciated this type of storytelling and possibly want more.


Poetry Friday: Caught Staring

Caught Staring

An umbrella leans
against a fence, staring at
my bus on the road.