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Louise Sep 2014


So you want my story
the story of my life
the secrets I have kept,
the many I've tried to hide

You don't want to know
the story or the tale
let's just not mention it
the past, on its ship did sail

I'm continuing to let go
of the past and the hurt
I'm a woman that's still growing
leaving behind the bruised little girl

One day I will be healed
and maybe sleep at night
hopefully before I've completed
the story of my life


Louise Sep 2014
I count the grains of sand between my toes
Each represents small details in my life
Over time,  they've slipped through my fingertips
landing at my feet
The roughness reminds me of all that I have learnt
yet the coolness of them combined,
flowing through my inquisitive fingers reflects the moments,
like this,  that I'll treasure.
  Aug 2014 Louise
Richard Riddle
By Emily Riddle(age-9)


I just couldn't do without
my grandma's heart necklace -
It was a gift to me, although
she passed away when I was little.

It also holds all of my mad,
sad, and happy memories,
just like it is a part of me.
I wear it on very special occasions,
since it is so unique.

When I wear it close to my heart-
it makes me feel special.
That's why I would always
feel happy, or at least, a little joyful,
when I hold it to my chest-
to pretend my grandma is
still alive.

She was very important to me-
We did so much together,
and I miss her,
and the special times we shared.

I can feel her with me
when I wear it, or hold it,
close to me.

Without this prized possession,
all of my feelings
would be lost,
with my grandma, in the sky.

My heart necklace
means the world to me,
and I wouldn't change
anything about it.

People say
"jewelry is made
to look beautiful."

Well, I say,
It was made to be a
"Memory Holder!!"

copyright-Emily Riddle- October 15, 2013
My granddaughter Emily, wrote this essay as a class assignment for her 3rd Grade class. Originally in full page, essay form, I divided it into stanzas, and added some punctuation. Although there are some misspellings(two), I chose not to correct them, but to leave the content as it was written, in order to preserve the sincerity, and the innocence, with which it was written. Thank you, so much, Emily Riddle.
  Aug 2014 Louise
Richard Riddle
By Emily Riddle-Age 9 

Special: The dictionary describes an angel as a "thing or person, that means a lot to someone. Well, I describe an angel as my grandmother.

My grandmother is a wonderful person, and what she is best at
is caring about what I will become.
I am so glad to be in her life, and in her beautiful world.

She has a heart of gold, and is a "doctor to my soul."
She is the "nurse" that make my hurts disappear.
She is my "piggy bank of niceness."

When I would get a birthday, or Christmas gift, she would always say,
"If you don't like it, be sure to try it."
I would always listen to her, for everybody knows
"grandmothers are always right."

I think of her everyday, and feel that  I can do anything
when I'm around her. Just remember,
"Always be happy for what you have, and don't imagine a life without a grandmother."

They are worth a billion dollars.

copyright: emily riddle August 27,2014
Penned in 2013 by my granddaughter, Emily Riddle. Written for her Grandmother Linda, its worth more than a billion dollars.
Louise Aug 2014
○●○

She desperately tries to fight
against the tide
knowing she's never been
strong.
The waves are overpowering.
Ignoring her struggle
they continue,  battering her
physically,
emotionally.
She is losing her fight
to get to where she needs to be.
Tempted to submit,
let go,
give in,
she relaxes her exhausted
muscles,
her exhausted self.
Holding her breath
and letting the current control her
she resigns,
just for today
and let's the tide decide
that it will take her
back to the shore.
Maybe she'll begin
to end it all again tomorrow.

○●○
I wasn't intending this to head in this direction but I liked the idea of the reader believing that she was trying to save herself rather than actually trying to drown herself.
Louise Aug 2014
◇◇◇

She loved a poet
who loved to write,
about her.

He scribbled,
took notes,
created stanzas
and perfected poems,
about her.

He wrote
about her sorrowful eyes
the way the moon
lit up the darkness
within her,
the way her hair
curled lovingly around his fingers
as if it was meant to be.

He wrote about the angle of her curvy hips
sloping gently from her waist,
the perfect fit for his hands.

He continued to write
during the days
her tears began to fall,
even as she left
for the last time.
He, sadly,
let her slip through his fingers
and continued to write.


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