life

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

📝 The Quiet Count

/ Nancy Ann Creed / Leave a comment
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📝 The Quiet Count
The words escape them, fleeting, quick and slight,
A casual “friend,” a breath upon the air.
A convenient emblem, shining in the light,
But utterly vacant when true burdens bear.

The sun-drenched moments made the title easy,
A fashionable accessory for all to don,
But in the silence, when the world grew hazy,
The fragile tie that held them proved undone.

When the harsh fever gripped me, cold and deep,
And a thick curtain of despair descended low,
While the wide world was safely fast asleep,
The names they boasted felt like phantom snow.

The multitude of vows they’d freely made
Were exposed for what they truly were: mere trade.
A cruel calculation, bought and then resold,
For only the barest fraction cared to call.

A digital whisper, a short text, faint and few,
A brief, uncertain spark against the gathering night.
The many voices that asserted that they knew
Simply vanished, eclipsed by shadows’ might.

My makeshift sickroom was a lonely tomb,
And they, the vibrant ghosts who wouldn’t share the gloom.
I picture them now, the laughter bright and strong,
Their glossy images emblazoned everywhere,

And the harsh, clear truth of where I don’t belong
Strikes with the certainty of chilled, vacant air.
They spin their narratives, both dazzling and loud,
And in their hurried chronicles, a mention flits,

A distant, chilling resonance within the crowd,
As my memory into the past slowly transmits.
The fast, unforgiving current of their days
Sweeps them onward, leaving me a fading haze.

I was a footnote, a forgotten, minor scene,
Now pushed aside by brighter, more compelling sheen.
The intimacy they claimed was but a lie,
A simple piece of scenery they let drift by.

So let the vast machinery of life turn on,
Let them find pleasure in their bustling, self-made world.
My period of painful self-deception is now gone;
The flag of my true solitude has been unfurled.

I’ve met the piercing truth, and there’s no turning back:
I am the one who isn’t here, a silent, missing track.
I have been edited out, a frame cut from the reel,
A ghost inhabiting the spaces where they feel.

And in this quiet haven, this deserted room,
Where the walls listen and the shadows softly creep,
I sit and learn the texture of my newfound bloom,
The quiet dignity the deeply wounded keep.

For in the harsh, raw landscape of this fading light,
Where vanity and false pretense cannot remain,
I’ve sculpted out a solitary space, pure and white,
A quiet harbor safe from any transient pain.

I stand alone, a fact I must completely face,
The few dear souls who checked, I hold them close and tight.
But for the bulk, the swiftly passing, loud-mouthed race,
The thunder of their grand claim is hard to hear in the night.

Their grand pronouncements of unwavering devotion
Are stripped of substance, a hollow, mocking notion.
The silence speaks louder than their fleeting sound,
And in that silence, genuine peace is found.

More Works by Nancy Ann Creed

https://books2read.com/u/m25Ygd

When is it enough?

/ Nancy Ann Creed / Leave a comment
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When is it Enough?

How long must the open hand remain,
When the other will not meet its strain?
The core dilemma of the human tie,
A painful question of loyalty,
Endurance, and how much self-worth you’ll spend,
To reach a silence that will never end.

How long does the title of “friend” hold true?
When shared history’s debt is overdue,
And the present moment is marked by cold harm,
Or the chilling indifference of a broken charm?
When does the label become a hollow sound,
A testament to what was, not what is found?

Is the sacred practice of prayer still right,
For a soul unconcerned with your day or night?
Does intercession become a painful toll,
A thankless rite for a disregarding soul?
The spirit’s commitment is tested and frayed,
By the walls of betrayal that have been laid.

When they tarnish your name with calculated lies,
How long do you absorb the pain behind your eyes?
When they won’t speak, a barrier high and stout,
How long do you knock before you turn about?
When they treat your existence as insignificant air,
How much can your spirit’s dignity bear?

The waiting is a sacrifice you choose to make,
A pause of your own joy for a lost past’s sake.
But waiting is a cost that drains the will,
A stalling on the path that you must fulfill.
The battle shifts from effort out to inward plea:
Do you still pray? Or is detachment the key?

Is it wrong to move on, to finally not care?
When self-preservation demands a boundary there,
Does moving on become a vital act of grace,
To win back your self-respect in this bitter space?
The heart refuses to comply, that is the pain,
To stop caring is loss, a required emotional wane.

Why does the guilt of leaving cling so tight?
A fear of failing the endless-giving rite.
The mandate to be patient, to forever yield,
While your own peace lies ravaged on the field.
Yet, being “the better person” has a true cost,
It means protecting dignity before all is lost.

When is it enough? When will it ever cease?
The answer is internal, the reclaiming of peace.
Enough is when the cost of staying makes you bleed,
When waiting becomes self-destruction’s silent deed.
Enough is when your own well-being takes the lead,
And moving on is liberation—a necessary creed.

More Works by Nancy Ann Creed

https://books2read.com/u/m25Ygd

Wait Your Turn

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Wait Your Turn
They bid us work, and strive, and strain,
They preach the gospel of grit and pain.
The virtue of patience, a long-held breath,
Wait your turn, they assure, until death.
With diligent toil within the system’s fold,
Good things will come, a story often told.

They hail the high road of academic might,
Perfect grades, degrees, and the burning night
Of all-nighters, leading to institutions grand,
The path to success paved by a diploma in hand.
The central command, the mantra they impart:
Work hard, and success will fill your heart.

But the hollow sound their pronouncements make,
From a sheltered world, for goodnes’s sake.
A place sustained not by relentless effort’s cost,
But by the legacy that was never lost,
By exclusive gates and a lineage long,
A privilege entrenched, where they belong.

They fail to grasp the truth that grinds us down,
The doubled effort just to keep the crown
From slipping, just to stay where we began,
Disconnected from the struggle’s rigid plan,
That harsh existence which our lives define,
While they stand above, on heights divine.

What they possess, we desperately lack:
The insulating cushion on wealth’s track,
Money that shields them from survival’s fear.
They wield the power that holds the system dear,
Shaping the rules, not merely influence slight,
And connections unseen, a web of pure light.

A network of favors, a whispered invitation,
Opportunities passed through each generation,
A resource worth more than all the sweat we’ve spent,
Yet they command us to be more intent.
They stand on their platforms, elevated and cold,
“Work harder,” they shout, a story getting old.

This directive is a self-serving slight,
A useful tool for a blinding light,
To justify their perch, so high and so neat,
To placate the masses, a narrative complete.
Keep us focused on the effort of one,
Ignoring the structures, the battle unwon.

But now we pierce the veil, we understand,
Too long we’ve labored at their harsh command.
Our youth and our fire poured into the drain,
For a system of diminishing, aching pain.
We know by the certitude of what we live,
That harder work will not be enough to give.

It cannot breach the walls that they have raised,
It cannot lift the life we’ve always praised,
Nor close the chasm wide that separates
Their world of ease from the heavy fates.
The meritocracy’s promise, their comforting theme,
Is a fiction, a sermon, a vanishing dream.

It is a sham, a lie both vast and bold,
A hollow pretense, a story bought and sold.

https://books2read.com/u/m25Ygd

The Unanswered Call

/ Nancy Ann Creed / Leave a comment

The Unanswered Call

The silence stretches, wide and deep, a space
Where my small ‘hello’ falls without a trace.
I check my phone, a habit worn and true,
A faint, false hope that maybe it’s from you.

The thread of connection, I’m the one who weaves,
The constant opener, the one who believes
That if I pause, if I just let it be,
The silence would grow to infinity.

I map the distance, gauge the growing gap,
And I’m the one who always has to ta
Upon the glass, the careful, gentle nudge,
To prove our bond isn’t built on a grudge.

I know your news, the triumphs and the strife,
Because I ask about your life.
I hold the mirror, catching all the light,
And listen late into the lonely night.

But oh, dear friend, a quiet, simple plea
Sometimes I wonder, do you think of me?
When the dark shadows start to close me in,
And my own battle is where I begin…

I wish just once, without a prompting word,
The unexpected check-in would be heard.
To see a message, a small, unsolicited sign,
“Are you okay? How are things on your line?”

To feel the warmth of being sought and seen,
And know I’m valued, not just a machine
For comfort given, always on the call.
I long to know I matter after all.

More Work by Nancy Ann Creed

https://books2read.com/u/m25Ygd

What Depression Feels Like

/ Nancy Ann Creed / Leave a comment
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What Depression Feels Like

The liquid velvet, soft and deep,
A wonderfully warm tide to keep
The soul at rest, the skin in grace,
A gentle, all-encompassing embrace.
It holds the sun’s forgotten art,
A yielding balm that mends the heart,
Sinking deep into the bone,
Where every coil of tension is overthrown.

A quiet joy within the chest,
A feeling wholly warm and blessed.
Not just physical, but a love untold,
A deep, inexplicable warmth to hold.
In peaceful suspension, time is still,
The outside world obeys the will
Of this sweet bliss, where nothing is near
But the gentle lapping of the heat held dear.

Then, a subtle shift begins to creep,
Disturbing the water from its sleep.
A whisper of coolness, a current’s sigh,
A quiet, inevitable tide draws nigh.
Down and down, the sanctuary falls,
The warmth’s core pulled through unseen walls,
A slow descent, the magic gone astray,
As the perfect feeling flows away.

Swiftly now the change is known,
A shocking cold, where heat was sown.
It hits the body, a sharp intrusion,
A sudden, stark, and cold confusion.
Creeping up the limbs, the awakening stark,
Leaving a chill, a profound, cold mark.
A sudden loss, a trailing dread,
As comforting heat has truly fled.

The final warmth is now withdrawn,
I lie in wait for the bleak, cold dawn.
The porcelain icy, the air is chill,
The once-magical pool is now still.
A container cold, and left alone,
A bleak and empty vessel of stone.
I shiver slightly, the memory’s grace
Of that perfect heat still haunts this place,
Wondering why such a feeling could flee,
And depart so completely from me.

A good friend once told me that this is how depression feels. I do not have depression. I have anxiety. But I thought it was an interesting metaphor for depression. I wanted to write it down to give some awareness. He said once the cold hits you, you feel like the warmth will never come back.

https://books2read.com/u/m25Ygd

I am Strong

/ Nancy Ann Creed / Leave a comment

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I am strong, a fortress of resilience
Forged in fires of adversity.
My spirit, unyielding, resolute,
Stands tall against the fiercest storms,
Knowing within me resides an indomitable will.

I will prevail, surrender not an option.
Each challenge faced, each obstacle overcome,
Strengthens my resolve, propels me forward,
On the path to victory. I am a testament
To persistence, triumph over tribulation.

I am powerful, not just physical might,
But in the boundless energy of my being.
My thoughts are sparks that ignite change,
My actions ripple effects that reshape my world.
I am a force of nature, orchestrating transformation.

My words can move mountains,
Imbued with conviction and purpose.
Architects of dreams, catalysts for action,
Capable of grandest endeavors,
Shifting stubborn landscapes of thought.

My words can tear people down,
A sobering reminder of immense responsibility.
The power to wound, a shadow lurking,
Ever conscious of its presence.

I choose to lift them up. This is my solemn vow,
My guiding principle. To use my voice,
My language, not to diminish, but to elevate;
Not to destroy, but to construct; not to break, but to mend.
My words will be a beacon of hope, a chorus of encouragement.

I am strong, a vibrant tapestry
Woven with threads of courage and grace.
My heart beats with the rhythm of endurance,
My mind shines with clarity of purpose.
I am a survivor, a thriver, strength blossoming within.

I am loved, enveloped in an embrace
Of warmth and affection, fueling spirit, anchoring soul.
This love, a precious gift, a sanctuary and a springboard,
Empowering me to reach for stars,
And share my own light with the world.

I am beautiful, not by fleeting outward standards,
But by intrinsic radiance of character,
Depth of empathy, purity of intentions.
My beauty emanates from within,
A vibrant glow that touches all who encounter it.

My words can move mountains,
Echoes of deepest convictions,
Reverberating with strength of beliefs.
Instruments of change, shaping perceptions,
Igniting passions, inspiring monumental shifts.

My words can tear people down,
A stark reminder of delicate balance,
Between influence and harm.
The potential for devastation lies
Within the very same tool that can build.

I choose to lift them up.
This is my unwavering commitment,
Etched into the very fabric of my being.
To channel the power of my words towards upliftment,
To wield them as tools of empowerment,
To sow seeds of kindness and understanding.
My voice will be a source of strength,
A comfort to the weary, a testament
To the transformative power of compassionate communication.

A Ghost, Unseen.

/ Nancy Ann Creed / Leave a comment
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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
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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

Feelings

/ Nancy Ann Creed / Leave a comment
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Feelings (When you know you are being left out.)

The laughter comes through drywall, thick and low,
A happy static I don’t get to know.
I’m in the kitchen, pouring out a drink,
And on the very edge of what they think.
It isn’t cruel, it has no pointed sting,
This accidental orbit where I swing.

The door swings open and the sound cuts clean,
A sudden silence wipes the vibrant scene.
A smile is offered, quick and paper-thin,
A pause, before the story can begin
Again, but different. Softer, and more staid,
A careful, edited version, newly made.

And in that quiet that my presence brought,
A frantic question in my mind is caught:
Was my name just a whisper in the air?
A punctuation mark they couldn’t share?
A punchline or a problem or a plea?
Was the last word they swallowed simply “me”?

There is no proof, no evidence to find,
Just shifting shadows in my worried mind.
A glance that might mean nothing, or mean all,
The way a friendly gesture seems too small.
I’m chasing ghosts of words I never heard,
And judging every single action spurred.

It’s like a hum beneath the floorboards, faint,
A phantom ache that merits no complaint.
For what is there to say? “I feel a dread
About the secret things you might have said”?
They’d call it madness, and perhaps they’re right.
So I just stand here in the fading light,
And smile, and nod, and never let them see
The terrifying space surrounding me.

Check out more work by Nancy Ann Creed

Maeve- https://books2read.com/u/m25Ygd
Matthew- https://books2read.com/u/bzNZYj
Justin- https://books2read.com/u/mBKzLZ
Maurelle- https://books2read.com/u/bzN19D
Annabelle- https://books2read.com/u/bWqEkx