This? This is not the place for a fragile heart

Addendum: I reactivated my main Twitter account today. I’m going to let it sit for a bit. And see how I feel in a week or so. I am not going to post a link to this blog nor am I going to address anything about any of this. I don’t want to litter my timeline with any negativity. I just don’t. That’s never what I came to social media for. So, I will take some time to myself, for myself, let Twitter sit. And see how I feel.

—Original Post—

I feel like I’m in an episode of the Twilight Zone. Yesterday, of the blue I got attacked on Twitter and accused of doing something awful by a group that I was – up until a few days ago – close friends with. Not once, was I asked by any of them, about whatever it is that I wrote that offended and upset them. I’m still unclear as to what it was. And when I asked mutual friends, they were unclear too. Many tried to reassure me that it was a misunderstanding. Which maybe it was OR maybe I DID unknowingly do something wrong. I just don’t know. But, why wouldn’t someone who is supposed to be a friend just ASK me or TELL me that I wrote something that hurt them? I would remove such thing and issue an apology in SECONDS FLAT. Because that’s not who I am. Not at all.

So I’m stating this for the record here, where it will remain for posterity but most likely go unread by the masses. And that’s okay. I’m tired of the masses. Especially if this is how the masses behave. My disposition is not cut out for this kind of persecution. But here goes for the record:

I did NOT write a poem specifically targeted at ANY disease. If I wrote something without realizing it that triggered any pain or discomfort about any disease I am -DEEPLY- sorry and would have removed it, if just asked. 

I did NOT willingly or purposely copy anyone’s words and use them as my own. I admired. I looked up to. I tried to be more “Ariel” – writing to prompts and encouraging tweets, but I did not purposely copy anyone or anything.

I was continuously retweeting this group who have made these accusations and blocked me — clearly I didn’t see what I was writing as copying them. I wasn’t intentionally doing anything. I would have deleted or changed whatever it was if I had just been ASKED or given the chance. I adored these girls. I admired them. I was a fan. I bought their books. I gave their books as gifts to my friends for Christmas. I promoted them and their books on both my accounts. Truth be told, I felt like several times I should maybe pinch myself because I couldn’t believe “they” liked me and my writing. I was not competition. I was not a threat. I was not and am not what I’m being made out to be. I would have explained this and apologized in SPADES if one of them would have just asked me directly.

But no one did. No one felt that I, my friendship or my writing was worth enough to do so. Do you know how hurtful that is? How gut wrenching and demeaning that is? I probably should hate them. But I don’t. That’s the thing. I had so much gratitude and respect for them that this has just …………. I can’t describe to you what it’s done to me. As a writer and as a person.

Thank you to those of you who gave me encouragement along the way. It’s meant so much. But I’m starting to think the public and social media are not the place for me. Or my writing.

Perhaps I will stick to writing late at night in the privacy of my mind and my notebooks. Me and Mr. Tanner.

Because this? This is not the place for a fragile heart.


i walked to the water’s edge
into the stillness
of her estuary, i waded
with a soft whisper to the undertow:
will i be forgotten?

i let the warmth
embrace me
the teardrops
of words lost
forever trapt
in the space between
want and need

i sank
the water begged
-stay with me-
let’s get lost
in the shadows of my depths
happily sunk beneath
this thick
where our wounded hearts
are free to bleed

©words by amélie

Writing, Learning, and Growing


was planted inside me
and like a seed, it grew
into words
with wine-stained lips
& profane sonnets
written for you

Sometimes I don’t know where the shit I write comes from. I mean I know it comes from deep inside of me. But sometimes I go back and read my own writing and I genuinely wonder for a moment ‘did I really write that??’

Remember, I didn’t start sharing my writing until a few months ago when I joined Twitter and Instagram. Thus, an audience and feedback is new to me.  And I’m still shocked and humbled that I get likes and RTs. I really truly am.

Let me digress here for a moment and say that I’m not at all trained in literature and/or writing. I’m a science nerd. The way I write when it comes to my profession is SO SO different than poetry or creative writing. It’s definitely two different sides of my brain working. I’m much more confident using the left side of my brain. And because of this, I have been craving some constructive feedback on the writing that comes from the right side.

So this week, I had coffee with a friend who teaches Lit at a local university and we discussed literary devices and tropes. I’ve been trying to use more in my writing and she was kind enough to look through some of my work. It was an interesting and enlightening experience.

One thing she and I both noticed is that my writing has changed from the time I first joined Twitter. In a good way, I think. It’s actually ….deeper. That may be surprising since Twitter only allows 140 characters, but a lot of the writing I tweet comes from larger more in depth pieces.

We also talked about the Twitter poetry prompts. They were such a good start for me. I’m so glad I found them when I first joined. Otherwise I don’t think I would have mustered up the courage to ever share a poem. And, I still write to them. I love them. But I’ve also – as of late – been just ….. writing and sharing poetry that doesn’t come from a prompt. I can’t explain why exactly but that feels like growth. My friend agreed.

I might be crazy. It’s okay if you think I am. All of this is new to me. And because my left brain is so used to taking charge of things, I am probably overthinking of all it! But I’m writing. And learning. And growing. So, who cares!

Thanks for listening.


©words and by amélie and ©image from WallpaperUp dot com




The Birth of Apathy

born under a bad sign
like a tumor grew

the baby was unplanned
a mistake
everybody knew

yet still she would play
each and every night

getting lost in fairy tales
out their fights

until one day her mother
Daddy’s gone away

it’s not your fault, it’s just
hearts? they go astray

but what about the
she asked her mom in tears

who love the pretty
and live happily for years?

her mother shook her head
out a sigh

those are just stories
is real life

her parents named her
but at the age of ten

she changed it to
for it was then

…she learnt that endings
aren’t always happy.

train track

©words by amélie, image unknown

Poetry Engraved in My Memory

@arielpoets on Twitter recently asked:

ariel poets asked

I had to think about this one for a bit. Because. There are SO many. Like, so so so so many. My mother always read. As I child I remember seeing books of poetry on her nightstand. I remember the first time I snuck into her room and read her book of Robert Frost poems, I was in awe of the way the words seem to dance and sing themselves off the page. I liked the way he used semicolons and long dashes in his writing. I could FEEL the flow along with the pauses in the verse. That moved me.

But I didn’t pick a Frost line as my answer.

When I was in junior high school, I got sent to the guidance counselor because I had some ‘troubling’ things written on the outside of one of my covered textbooks: Sylvia Plath’s Mad Girl’s Love Song. I had to explain to the counselor it was a poem. She didn’t know it. When she asked me why I had it written on my book, I answered: “it speaks to me.” And it did. Literally. The way Plath used the parentheses in that poem (I think I made you up inside my head) – I could have sworn she was whispering those words to me as she told me a story about a boy she loved who didn’t love her in return.

But I didn’t select that Plath line as my answer either.

What I did pick for my answer was this: somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond any experience, your eyes have their silence

ee cummings

This is probably my favorite poem of all time. Want to know why? I’ll tell you if you promise not to laugh! Well, okay you can laugh but just don’t TELL me that you laughed.

That poem was the first poem someone ever read TO me. His name was Ryan and we were laying in bed. He was playing with my hair and his voice was as soft and as sweet as his touch. And … I melted. That moment and this poem will forever be engraved in my head. And heart.

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain,has such small hands


Grenade [revisited with comments]

i gripped


words in

with pulled pin

until you stooped
too low

so fuck it
i let go


— I spent the last year in a toxic triangle. Caught in the middle of two people who I cared about very much but were completely dysfunctional. And don’t get me wrong, I know that I am broken. I’ve already made that clear. This was different. It was beyond broken and I got caught up in trying to fix things. Trying to fix them. I foolishly thought I could make things better and I tried like hell to be what they both needed. In the end, it turned out I had spread myself too thin. While trying to be everything for someone else, I was neglecting the things that I needed to be and do for me. But about a month ago, I woke up and said ‘fuck this. I’m done.’ That’s a story for another time. But what I can tell you right now is that it felt SO good to let go of that negative shit. And this poem came about as a result.


©anime art from

©words by amélie


and when
greed erupted, it
our love
to heated flashes
vices lingering
in the gluttonous air
burying us
in ashes


–I’m a greedy bitch. Especially when it comes to things like love and passion. When I’m burning hot it’s like … rawr. All in. Let’s do this. And do it a lot. Ha!

But seriously, I know me. I have this fire inside me that burns so intensely when I’m passionate about something or someone. It’s hard for me to focus on anything else. And I give so much of myself to the thing. Whether it be a person or a job or a task. I’m definitely a ‘go big or go home’ kind of girl.

So how does this relate to the goddamn poem? Patience! I’m getting there. I hint a lot at being “old” in my social media posts without telling y’all my age. But I’ll say it now. I’m 44. And I’ve always been this greedy, intense, passionate, all-in kind of person. What I’ve found, at least with love – passionate love – is that for me, the flames that have burned the most intensely have been the shortest lasting. It’s like they were too hot to sustain. I don’t know. Maybe I’m just attempting to rationalize failed past relationships. Who knows? But it feels like a truth. At least with me. There was a 10 word Twitter prompt recently – “sparkle”. I wrote: I don’t sparkle, I burn hot, blow like a fuse.

Truer words, my friends … truer words.


©words by amélie
photo| m beerley


i am cracked
and broken
no need to
handle me
with care

if you want
or perfect
go look

cracked and broken

— Years ago, I wrote a short story that contained the lines: “The silence drags on. It’s exquisite torture. I want you to slam me against the wall of the shower, and fuck me until I can’t stop screaming. And I want you to take my face in both hands and give me the sweetest, most delicate kiss on my lips. I want both these things and I can’t work out why. I can’t be an incurable romantic and a fucked-up little slut at the same time, can I? Or is that what you’ll teach me today?”

Believe it or not, I wrote that for an erotic literature contest for some online website. Again it was years ago, so I have no idea if it the site still exists but … I won. First place. The story was about a confused girl. Who felt good when she was being treated not so good by someone who loved her. At times, that has been the story of my life. I don’t expect anyone reading this to understand. I don’t even understand it on most days and I’ve lived it.

I was talking to a friend last night about being broken (aren’t we all just a little?) and about having issues we deal with. And I said to him: “All ‘life’ really is … is one breath then the next and finding what alleviates your issues in between.”

Peace, y’all.

©words by amélie, photo – unknown

Au Revoir

it’s a puzzle to me
how you can’t see
that your
poison seeps
and your
negativity creeps
it’s why everything you touch
never amounts to much
and try as you might
as hard as you fight
you still have to front
while you bear the brunt
of the self-hatred you hide
deep down inside
you’re a perfect pair
but lost souls beware
there’s no real shelter
to calm the helter skelter
i will attest
she said it best
a broken daisy
a hippy, lazy
swimming in
a sea of crazy
girl with suitcase

ph | public domain

©words by amélie