Friendship

Wanting to be Known

/ Nancy Ann Creed / Leave a comment
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Wanting to be Known

The threshold of the door is wide and bright,
A circle gathers, laughing in the glow,
And I am here, caught somewhere in the light,
Desiring more than just the names I know.
I see the surface, beautiful and clear,
The pleasant currents where we dive and play,
But oh, I want the ocean deep from here—
I want to wash the quiet guard away.

I want the late-night, sitting-on-the-floor,
Unvarnished truths, the fears we never speak,
To open wide the heavy, bolted door,
And show the places where the walls are weak.
I long for ties that weather through the storm,
The kind of tether time cannot undo,
Where sitting in the silence keeps us warm,
And being known means being valued, too.

But heavy armor isn’t easily shed,
And stepping closer feels like stepping blind.
The words I mean to say stay in my head,
While careful, safer phrases wait behind.
It is so hard to pull the veil aside,
To offer up the soft, unshielded part,
To trust the spaces where I usually hide
And lay the raw geography of heart.

So here I stand, a newcomer at bay,
With arms that ache to open and extend.
I take a breath, and try to find a way
To cross the bridge from stranger into friend.

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Navigating Emotional Pain in Relationships

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Navigating Emotional Pain in Relationships

I built a bridge of patient, weary years,
A silent span of quiet, chosen words,
The mortar set with dried and vanished tears,
A testament to battles, not rewards.
My hands I offered, strong and open wide,
To hold the weight of your erratic sphere,
To stabilize the chaos you supplied,
Yet only met a storm, a boundless fear.
My effort was but dust upon the breeze,
Against the wind of your profound unease.

When your world tilts and loses all its grace,
The guttural cry of “holy hell” defines
The atmosphere of this abandoned place,
No longer haven, but a field of mines.
A sudden, unexpected fire starts,
Consuming fragile things that stood its test,
Leaving behind a jagged, broken heart.
With cruelty, you push me to the crest,
The edge of sanity, my failing might,
Expecting me to hold while you ignite.

I tried, desperately, to be the ground,
The immovable foundation in the shake.
I absorbed the shocks where steady peace was found,
Withstood the tremors for your troubled sake.
But now the space between us is a void,
A profound, echoing, desolate expanse,
Where kindness’s tender seed has been destroyed,
And understanding lost its saving chance.
Now only the choked vine of unyielding rage,
And your consuming need across this stage.

I’ve studied your map of pain for far too long,
Memorized the texture of each emotional scar,
Anticipating where the wound would throng,
An unwilling cartographer of your war.
But in that process, I forgot my name,
Eclipsed by roles I was compelled to fill:
Your punching bag, the target of your flame,
Your safe harbor, your shore against the chill.
But that era’s ended, clarity now bright,
I won’t be your refuse, your emotional blight.

The door to this shared history is heavy now,
Weighted by expectation and old despair,
But it is closed, with a final, solemn vow.
The work I poured is starkly laid out there—
Not as a failure of a loving mind,
But as an investment that was misguided, deep.
I failed no duty, I was not unkind,
I simply chose myself, the promises to keep
To me. I recognized the point of no return,
And in that closure, finally, I learn.

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The Way Back to Us

/ Nancy Ann Creed / 3 Comments
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The Way Back to Us

The silent, turning tide of life
Has stretched the maps we knew,
The seasons shifted, ground gave way,
The ties between us drew

Slowly apart, a creeping drift.
Demands attention, energy,
Like water through the sand,
Leaching the solid ground of time.

There was a time, not long ago,
We were each other’s stay,
The anchors holding fast and sure
In storm of early day.
We held the secrets, deep and bright,
The wisdom time had wrought,
Our days marked by the shared, full laugh,
The tapestry we caught—

Before the world turned bright to cold.
I feel the sharp ache of the miss,
The ease we used to share,
Where we could simply be, no need
For any word or care.
That ease is gone; the quiet now,
The profound, long silence cast,
Has tragically become the sound
Our relationship held fast.
When air grows thin with struggle’s breath,
I seek those mirrored faces still.

I’m reaching back through the gray blur
The passing years have made,
Refusing that demanding life
Will keep the things that fade.
The miles that stand between us now
Are lines on charts that lie,
Meaningless compared to the depth
Our history lifts high.
Our memories, no fading echoes—
But brilliant, fixed stars in the night.

With will and concentrated hand,
I clear the tangled brush,
Desperate to find the path again
Beyond the isolating hush.
A clear, resounding call I send

Into the lonely void.
My friends, I want you now to know:
I’m here, steadfast, unalloyed.
I want us back—the kind of bond
That bends but will not break,
No matter what the wind may bring.
It is the time our circle wakes.

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The Quiet Outside

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The Quiet Outside

The empty space of connection, the gathering,
Pulses with a vibrant energy I only observe.
It hums with plans already made,
A detailed itinerary, a map of places where I do not go.
My position is fixed: outside. I don’t move;
I only watch the colors of the evening fade
From my window, a slow drain of warmth and light.
My world is contained, defined by sitting in the light of what I know.

The knowledge I possess is isolating, sharp:
That laughter sounds much louder through a wall—
Magnified by the barrier that separates their joy,
A painful noise. And conversely,
Silence is a heavy thing to wear,
A cloak woven from unsaid words.
It presses down, making breathing difficult.
So, I maintain a silent vigil. I wait for pings, for any word at all,
A simple notification, an anchor thrown,
To prove that, in their minds, I’m standing there.

The name of “friend,” I embraced fully;
We call them friends; I gave the name with pride,
A sacred title for those to whom I opened life.
I shared my secrets, listened to their own,
Believing in a mutual exchange, a balanced scale.
But now I wonder, standing on the side,
A silent observer of their motion,
If that foundation was solid. The crucial question takes root:
If I am liked, or simply “loosely known.”

A chilling suspicion whispers of self-doubt:
Is there a secret vote I didn’t see?
A quiet pact to leave the chair unfilled?
Or is the truth more passive, more insidious?
Or is the lack of room inside the spree
The consequence of slow emotional detachment?
It feels like The way a dying fire is slowly stilled,
The warmth receding until only ash remains.
The question I need to ask is too large, too sharp to utter;
It stays in my mind, a burning inscription in the dark:
Do I have friends, or people I just know?
Did I misjudge the reality of the bond?
Did I mistake a flicker for a spark?
The uncertainty is exhausting, forcing a decision:
Is it my cue to turn around and go?

The core of the issue is heartbreaking simplicity:
For if they wanted me, they’d find the space,
They’d actively rearrange the elements of their plan.
They’d reach across the gap to pull me through.
This is the ultimate loneliness I face:
There’s nothing lonelier than a familiar face—
A face I thought knew me—
That looks at everything—but never you.

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The Serendipitous Message

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The Serendipitous Message

A flicker in the digital sea,
A ripple in the ocean vast,
Announced a message, unanticipated, free,
A bridge to years and moments past.
No expectation, no alarm,
A serendipitous, sudden light,
A warmth against the day’s long harm,
Dispelling shadows of the night.

The sender’s name, a long-lost friend,
Appeared upon the silent screen,
A cherished sight without end,
Recalling what had been.
A powerful, unexpected force,
Across the void of silent years,
Washing away the quiet remorse,
And vanquishing old, silent fears.

A wave of joy, a deep embrace,
Surged through the heart, dissolving time,
As memories rushed, swift in their chase,
Like a rushing, vibrant tide sublime.
Laughter shared, a youthful sound,
Secrets told in hushed reply,
A core of trust that could be found,
A sturdy thread beneath the sky.

Across the miles that held them fast,
The vital connection instantly made,
The digital form, a vessel cast,
Where friendship’s enduring flame was played.
Passionately kindled, burning bright,
Unafraid of intervening years,
A testament to affection’s might,
Dispelling all the rising tears.

The quick exchange of grateful hearts,
A quiet acknowledgement of grace,
The inner vision of eyes that starts,
Smiling across time and space.
This sudden reunion, taking flight,
A potent reminder, clear and true,
Some bonds are not defined by sight,
But by a spirit time can’t undo.

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Ashes and Dust

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Ashes and Dust

It was not a solo journey,
It was meant for both of us to keep.
A path shared, a mutual destiny,
A bond where promises run deep.
We walked side by side, our footprints one,
A single narrative of hope begun.

But the story broke, the path was closed,
I stood on the chasm’s crumbling brim,
As a silhouette, slowly transposed
Into the inevitable, growing dim.
The ‘we’ became an ‘I’, a hollow sound,
In this desolate, forsaken ground.

Ashes and dust are all that stay
Of the bright fire we held in trust,
A barren landscape, grey today,
Where life dissolved in the air’s cruel gust.
The physical presence is no more,
Leaving the grit of loss upon the floor.

Then voices come from the periphery,
Offering platitudes in careful phrase.
They say, “It is not personal, you see,”
A necessary turn in cosmic haze.
A consequence, unavoidable and stark,
A wheel that turns and leaves no malice mark.

They speak these words, so cold and clinical,
To soothe a wound they cannot comprehend.
Do they expect a heart, now critical,
To take this lie, this foolishness they send?
To call abandonment ‘impersonal’ then claim
It takes the searing edges from the pain?

It is a construct, fragile and designed
To shield their own complicity from view.
Lies and more lies are spun to leave behind
Their failures of commitment, wholly true.
The architects of ruin hide their face,
Behind the veil of fate or bureaucratic space.

They see my silence and begin to doubt,
Why I won’t trust their flimsy, weak assurance;
They wonder why my quiet stays throughout
Their clumsy, hollow show of endurance.
Is their concern a genuine desire to know
The depth of the betrayal’s silent blow?

Or is the query just a social art,
A reflex uttered in a scripted play?
Do they care for me, the broken, scattered part,
Or am I just a failure they wish away?
I let the fine, particulate dust stream in—
The dust of forgetting, where true wounds begin.

I scan the empty space, a vacant stare,
Where is the circle that was meant to hold?
I know they exist, breathing their own air,
In parallel worlds of comfort, brave and bold.
Not here with me, not for me in this plight,
Not in the core of this seismic, lonely night.

It was meant to be the two of us, you see,
Walking the sunset, weathering the storm.
The fundamental premise of our entity.
But I was left alone, without the warm,
Not just abandoned, but deliberately selected
For solitary confinement, unprotected.

A cold clarity begins its slow, strange birth,
The isolation may not be a curse,
But a final, hard-won gift of self-worth.
Maybe it’s best to sift these ashes terse,
Unbound by promises that turned to frail dust.
In this quiet, hard-won peace is final trust.

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The Shattered Image

/ Nancy Ann Creed / 2 Comments
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The Shattered Image

The depth of my disappointment is immense,
I truly thought you were a person of integrity,
Whose every action would align, with no pretense,
With the strong character you seemed to be.
“I thought you were better” is too mild to say;
I saw in you a loyalty I sought to find,
A moral standard now just dust and clay,
A shattered image of a perfect mind.

The thing you did, or failed to do, you see,
Was not a simple letdown; “it crushed me” whole.
It was a devastating blow to my reality,
A chasm swallowing my trusting soul.
I had invested trust and boundless hope,
An extraordinary quantity of “faith in you,”
To find it misplaced, I now must grope,
A personal failure, though the fault is true.

Our bond, which I so dearly held and prized,
Was based on a belief in shared pure light.
“I thought we were actually friends,” I realized,
Now every memory feels contaminated, blight.
Each moment shared, each secret I confessed,
Feels poisoned by the knowledge I now hold,
That “that’s a lie, and it’s always been a lie,” unblessed.
A friendship’s illusion, turning cold.

My estimation of you reached the stars,
“Maybe I thought more highly of you than you think of yourself.”
I held you past your self-imposed high bars,
More than you were capable of from your shelf.
I believed you held a goodness and a strength,
A beautiful essence that does not exist.
“Maybe I thought more of you than you truly are,” at length,
The gap between the ideal and the actual persists.

My admiration wasn’t born from my own plight,
For I appreciated what I thought you were.
I never claimed perfection, or to be the light:
“I don’t think I am special; I thought you were.”
I know my faults; I am not so grand:
“I don’t think I am great; I thought you were.”
My self-regard is low, I understand:
“I don’t think highly of myself, but I thought highly of you.”

The burden of this pain, in a dark way,
Rests on my shoulders for this foolish crime.
“I guess I was wrong to put that much faith in you,” I say.
The name of “friend” was sacred, but I wasted time:
“I guess I was wrong to call you a friend.”
My error was this desperate, naive dream,
That you would prove me right until the end:
“I guess I was wrong; I wanted you to be better.”

And so I cycle through this self-inflicted doubt,
Were my expectations too far out of reach?
“I guess I was wrong, maybe it’s just me,” I shout.
But the ultimate truth that the facts now preach:
“I guess I was wrong; I put too much faith in you.”
I took your potential for your very core:
“I guess I was wrong, believing in you,” it’s true.
I can’t believe in you anymore.

The desolate conclusion is the clear refrain:
“I guess I was wrong.” A simple, crushing sound.
For in your actions, truth gives way to pain:
“I guess I meant nothing to you” that I have found.
The end of my faith is the end of what we were.

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The Wall Within

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The Wall Within


A hundred hands may wave hello,
My circle stretches far and wide,
A glittering, expanding galaxy of faces.
I wear the badge of social glow,
A persona polished by years of practice,
With nowhere left for me to hide.

From all the laughter, chatter, speed—
The ceaseless, humming frequency
Of a busy, pleasant, surface life.
I move through it with practiced ease,
A master of the graceful pivot,
The knowing nod, the quick, witty reply.

I plant a seed of friendship in every brief encounter,
But plant no need, no urgent desire,
To share the fragile, intricate root of inner strife.
That soil remains untouched, protected
Beneath a carefully cultivated veneer.

I’m fluent in the easy grace,
The casual etiquette of the crowd,
The light exchange, the friendly art
Of keeping things buoyant and untroubled.
I hold my ground, keep pace for pace
With the energy swirling around me.

But with a discipline honed by instinct,
I guard the chambers of my heart.
They see the joy, a bright, unburdened thing;
They know the name, the accessible presence,
The quick advice, the ever-ready helping hand.

But do they know the private flame?
The solitary, almost sacred fire
That burns when the crowd disperses?
Do they comprehend the quiet wish I understand,
A silent vow whispered in the empty rooms?

This is a hidden wish for something more,
A hunger that the fleeting nature
Of nodding, quick hellos can never satisfy.
It is a desperate yearning to stand before an open door,
Not just ajar, but wide, welcoming the cold draft of honesty.

And let the chosen currents flow—
The true, deep rivers of thought and feeling.
It means taking the terrifying risk of being seen,
Truly and wholly, stripped of the social armor,
Embracing the profound fear of vulnerability.

It is the urgent, essential work
Of trying to bridge the gap that lies
Between the friend I am—the comfortable, reliable construct—
And the authentic soul I truly wish to be.

I long for souls with whom to build a sanctuary,
A trust that does not need the exhausting
Scaffolding of pretense. I search for the sacred space
To be fulfilled, not just busy, by sharing what I hold intense—
The deep convictions, the quiet sorrows, the complicated ecstasies.

These lie beneath the surface chatter.
I have the crowd, the sprawling, beautiful, demanding crowd,
Now I must dare the single, hardest act:
To drop the stone that shields the well.

To lower the defenses, to shatter
The carefully crafted stories I tell,
And let the few who truly care,
Those with the steady gaze and the listening heart,
See past the bright, easy narratives and witness the truth held within.
I want to trade the effortless multitude for the arduous, sustaining few.

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100%

/ Nancy Ann Creed / 4 Comments

100%

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I thought you were my certain shield,
The one true, steadfast, loyal friend.
A naive conviction, now revealed,
That you would stand until the end,
No matter the storm, the challenge faced,
Your full resolve, completely placed.

I sought a fierce, unwavering vow,
A pure defense, holding nothing back,
A perfect pledge, as you know how,
To guard my ground along the track.
A hundred percent, my only plea,
Undeniable fealty.

But that fierce certainty is gone,
A shattered faith, a painful lie.
I wake to realize at dawn,
I lack the worth that merits why—
I’m not enough, I see it clear,
To warrant that support so dear.

The wound of ‘sorry’ is a slight,
A shallow balm that cannot mend
The hollow ache of broken light;
It will not bring the hurt to end.
For others hold a higher seat,
They taste the loyalty I greet.

And so, the starkest truth remains,
A bitter draught I must consume:
To face the isolating rains,
To walk alone within the gloom.
I must accept, in every plight,
I stand completely by my light.

https://books2read.com/u/m25Ygd

The Illusion of Kinship

/ Nancy Ann Creed / Leave a comment
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They claim the name of “friend,” a title bright,
Yet stand as distant as the stars’ cold light.
Their voices, once a vibrant, clear refrain,
Now reach the ear as faint, distorted pain,
Lost, perhaps, in some far, forgotten bar.
They speak of history, of shared delight,
A woven tapestry of days gone by,
But in this stark and unforgiving now,
Only their deep, loud silence makes a vow—
A painful echo, truer than their word.

A Hollow Bond

What lingers is a hollow, empty shell,
A bond without true grace or truth to tell.
A fleeting shadow, swift to disappear,
Leaving no trace upon the heart held dear.
How dare they wear that loyal title still,
When constant absence proves against their will
A bond untrue, a pretense built on air?
Friendship’s true essence is betrayed by care
And presence that they utterly withhold,
A story of detachment, stark and cold.

Unkept Promises and Letting Go
This fragile friendship rose on broken ground,
Of promises unkept, no solace found.

Aspirations whispered, never meant to bloom,
Commitments scattered to an early tomb.
A frail construction, easily swept wide
By life’s small currents, or convenient tide.
The time has come for separation’s plea,
A painful truth that sets the spirit free.
So cherish those whose actions speak of grace,
Whose faithful presence keeps its steady pace.
And with resolve, and self-respect’s strong hand,
Let go of those who fail to understand
The burden shared, the joy, the vital art,

Required to keep a true bond in the heart.

https://books2read.com/u/m25Ygd