Month: October 2025

Just a Ghost Upon the Hill

/ Nancy Ann Creed / Leave a comment

I have to assume all indie writers feel this way eventually. I’ve poured my life into writing—16 years just on novels—and for what? You write and write, and the silence on the other end is deafening. It makes you wonder if it was all just a dream, or if you’re just shouting into the void. At this point, I don’t even know what to feel.”

Just a Ghost Upon the Hill

The cursor blinks against the white,
A lonely pulse in fading light.
The file is open, saved, and clean,
The final chapter, final scene.
No agent waiting, no advance,
Just me, and this one fading chance.

I hit the “publish” button, bold,
A story waiting to be told.
I watched the dashboard, day by day,
And saw the numbers waste away.
A rank that sticks in seven figures,
The hopeful ache that slowly withers.

I tweaked the keywords, bought the ads,
One of a million hopeful fads.
I begged for reviews, a star or two,
From strangers who just skimmed it through.
I wrote the posts, I forced the smile,
And felt the burnout all the while.

The day job calls, the bills are due,
The time I stole to see this through
Feels wasted now, a foolish debt,
A heavy, deep, and cold regret.
The passion I mistook for skill

Is just a ghost upon the hill.
I close the file, I shut the screen.
The world I built remains unseen.
The ink is dry, the well is spent,
I don’t know where the magic went.
I’ll let the silence have the win,
And not pick up the pen again.

More Works by Nancy Ann Creed

https://books2read.com/u/m25Ygd

A Ghost, Unseen.

/ Nancy Ann Creed / Leave a comment
Photo by gryffyn m on Pexels.com

I keep the fire in this hall,
Arrange the chairs and mend the wall.
My hands are worn with tending tasks,
Fulfilling all that anyone asks.
I am the keeper of the space,
The one who sets the hurried pace.

And some who gather here draw near,
Their quiet thanks both warm and clear.
They see the work, the effort spent,
Acknowledge what the labor meant.
In their kind eyes, I find my place,
A welcome smile, a moment’s grace.

But others in this shared abode,
Who travel down the very same road,
Look through me as if I were glass,
Observing only shadows pass.
The meal is served, the linens clean,
But I remain a ghost, unseen.


They take the comfort that I make,
But offer nothing for my sake,
A servant in the home I claim,
Known by my function, not my name.

More works by Nancy Ann Creed

https://books2read.com/u/m25Ygd

Outside the Frame

/ Nancy Ann Creed / Leave a comment
Photo by Jenny Tran on Pexels.com

The music starts, a known, dear beat,
A melody that stirs the soul,
With laughter mixed, both joy and sweet
Sad memory, beyond control.
A circle gleams, a happy ring,
Shimmering bright, with joy imbued,
The song they play, the joy they sing,
A vibrant, shared, harmonious mood.

But I remain, outside the frame,
The door to that bright world is shut.
A finished tale, a quiet flame,
A chapter closed, a silent cut.
A sliver of light beneath the door,
A path I know, but can’t regain,
Hints at the warmth, the joy in store,
A life lived on, beyond my pain.

An unseen glass, a silent chill,
Divides me from their vibrant grace.
I watch their dance, so still, so still,
A world away, yet near this place.
A footstep’s reach, yet worlds apart,
The nearness amplifies the void,
A chasm deep within my heart,
My name unspoken, unenjoyed.

My place is lost, the world moves on,
Unaware of the space I fill,
Indifferent to the path I’ve gone,
A quiet ache, a love held still.
A hollow space, where love resides,
But no more place for it to be,
No role to play, as time presides,
No part for me, for them to see.

So I recede, into the night,
From warmth and light, I turn away,
A silent watcher, lost to sight,
A specter where joy holds its sway.
A shadow faint, by love’s strong burn,
A mournful echo, soft and deep,
In solitude, I slowly learn,
A love I have, but cannot keep.

More Works by Nancy Ann Creed

https://books2read.com/links/ubl/mYM5Go

The One Who’s Not Enough

/ Nancy Ann Creed / Leave a comment
Photo by Brett Sayles on Pexels.com

The One Who’s Not Enough

The script is written on a different page,
One that my eyes are not allowed to see.
You act your part upon a friendly stage,
And smile and say the kindest things to me.
But I can feel the story start to shift
The moment that I turn my back and leave.
A subtle energy, a silent rift,
A tapestry of doubt I start to weave.

I analyze the silence in a car,
The way your eyes connect with someone else.
Each quiet moment feels like a new scar,
A story that my own suspicion tells.
Are plans now made in whispers I can’t hear?
A gathering I’m not meant to attend?
It’s not the anger, but the creeping fear
Of being the forgotten, outlier friend.

I have this vision of a glowing screen,
A private chat where all my flaws are named.
A place where every awkward thing I’ve been
Is mocked, dissected, ridiculed, and shamed.
You add a message, and the others chime,
A chorus of agreement, sharp and fast.
Confirming I have wasted all this time,
Believing in a friendship that won’t last.

And so the kindness feels like brittle glass,
A courtesy before the truth is known.
This feeling that, when all the moments pass,
They secretly prefer to be alone.
That you are all complicit in a lie,
A patient, polite, and painful masquerade.
And in the end, the one they pass right by,
The one who’s not enough… is me, I’m afraid.