Poems

The Tie Is Severed

/ Nancy Ann Creed / Leave a comment
seil
Photo by Mariya on Pexels.com

The Tie Is Severed

I lost a friend today,
A simple, heavy line
That should descend like sorrow’s shroud,
A grief for what was mine.
I waited for the cutting edge,
The sting of sudden pain,
But found instead a strange relief,
No shadow of a chain.

I should be sad, should mourn the end,
The history we knew,
Yet in my chest a lightness wakes,
Defiant, strong, and new.
The truth is stark, the choice is clear,
I look upon the past:
I am not sorry that it broke,
I am simply glad at last.

The severing was not a hush,
But clash of will and word,
A necessary, cleansing fire
Where my own truth was heard.
I stood firm in the tempest’s heart,
Refused to be denied,
And drew a boundary, sharp and deep,
With nothing left to hide.

The lesson’s hard, but vital known:
Respect must be the core.
A friend should cheer the victory,
And lift you from the floor.
Your champions, they must remain,
To hold your spirit high,
But when support becomes resentment,
The basic contract dies.

When ally turns to critic’s shade,
A drain upon your soul,
They’ve breached the terms of fundamental trust,
And lost their rightful role.
The choice is not of cruelty,
But self-preserving might,
To cast the anchor from the boat,
And step back toward the light.

Assess the ones within your ship,
As you begin to rise;
Not all are rowing for your cause,
Some paddle with disguise.
Your soaring ambition reveals their truth,
Their loyalty gives way,
As jealousy’s shadow clips your wings,
And clouds your brighter day.

So now I mourn the anchor lost,
The friend who pulled me down.
The feeling is no sad despair,
But freedom’s joyful crown.
A paradoxical, weary joy,
A wish that bonds would hold,
Yet still the weight is wholly gone,
A future to unfold.

The boat is lighter now it sails,
The struggle set aside.
I’m rowing, finally, alone,
With nothing left to hide.

https://books2read.com/u/m25Ygd

📝 The Quiet Count

/ Nancy Ann Creed / Leave a comment
contemplative silhouette in dark room
Photo by Evgeniya Koniukhova on Pexels.com

📝 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

My Light

/ Nancy Ann Creed / Leave a comment
group of people throwing paper lantern on sky during night
Photo by Abby Kihano on Pexels.com

My Light

A steady beacon, you appear,
When shadows gather and I fear
The path ahead is lost and gone
In darkness where I walk alone.
The sole voice of my reason’s plea,
The anchor of reality,
When the world spins with chaotic strife,
You are the breath that restores my life.
A silent force, you bring me peace,
A quiet, beautiful release.

Let tempests rage and gales descend,
Let the harsh winds their fury lend.
Let towering waves crash on the shore,
Threatening to consume all.
Yet, armed with our bond’s deep might,
We will endure, we will unite.
Unbroken, we will conquer all,
Our spirit standing strong and tall.
A lighthouse in the darkest squall,
Together, we will never fall.

While others scatter sparks of joy,
And fill my days without alloy,
Their collective light, a vibrant beat,
Is not the power to complete.
They give my life its rhythm’s art,
And cause the beating of my heart.
But it is you, the vital source,
The enduring love, the steady force,
That keeps my heart on its true course.
You are the reason for life’s continuance,
The core, the heart of my existence.

More Works by Nancy Ann Creed

https://books2read.com/u/m25Ygd

When is it enough?

/ Nancy Ann Creed / Leave a comment
black woman showing palm in light room
Photo by Monstera Production on Pexels.com

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

/ / Leave a comment
fashion hand hurry outfit
Photo by JÉSHOOTS on Pexels.com

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

I See the Phone

/ Nancy Ann Creed / Leave a comment
pexels-photo-699122.jpeg
Photo by Tyler Lastovich on Pexels.com

The black phone rests, a silence made of glass,
A direct line across the choking air.
My fingers yearn to seize its cool, smooth mass,
To dial the number etched beyond compare.
A fleeting urge to break the constant drone,
To trade my heart’s loud drumming for a voice unknown.

Or I could message, try to weave a careful plea,
A sequence of small signs, an emoji’s face.
To message more, to bridge the digital sea,
But leaden weight holds me within this space.
I am a prisoner in my own inertia’s thrall,
Unable to bridge the gap from thought to call.

My restless hands climb to my weary head,
To twirl a strand of blonde around a finger’s tip.
A pull, a slow release, a mark of tender red,
Until the coil is tight upon my lip.
A meaningless ritual, a physical display,
Of all the mental turmoil that will not fade away

Inside, the engine roars, though I appear so still,
My heart a frantic drummer beating out alarm.
The air is thin, a breath against my panicked will,
A visceral, exhausting, full-body harm.
Yet, still life carries on, the sun’s indifferent track,

Oblivious to the silent crisis holding back.
And so, I do not call. The paralysis has won,
Against the simple, human wish to just connect.
I hate the phone for what it has become,
A terrifying chance of being now rejected

The pressure of potential, the awkwardness that lies,
Reflected in the fear within my anxious eyes.
I lift my hand again, to message in the night,
But corrosive thoughts poison the touch before it lands:
I am a bother, a shadow, an intrusive blight,
A need that only inconveniences hands.

A self-imposed boundary, a powerful, deep chill,
That freezes my desire and holds my actions still.
This cease-less fight, the heart that pounds and strains,
The hand that freezes on the tool for grace—
The manufactured boundary of “being a pain”—
This is the cage, the isolating space.

Anxiety’s invisible lock, a final, cruel decree,
To watch the phone lie unused, and never to be free.

https://books2read.com/u/m25Ygd

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