Shattered Glass

Saturday, March 9, 2013


We all have our outlets....

Just this morning my boyfriend asked me, "What about Video Journaling, Beyonce does it ya know!?"

Of course, I responded with, "Oh, I know. I do that already." Much to no surprise (for those of you aware of my slight obsession with Her Majesty.

But then it dawned on me that I could never retire my pen and paper. Could Mozart retire his piano?

Writing is part of who I am.

Words flow through my veins like images in my imagination.


How can you challenge something innate? 

You can't. 

It's like buying a Kindle, for me, the crackle, the smell of each page turning reveals more of the story than a preface ever could.

Books. Pens. Pencils. bread and rain and nourishment.


I've been writing poetry for years. Created books, journals, way of sharing myself with...well the world I suppose.

Some may wonder why expose myself, why share the most intimate parts of my beings with strangers?

If I looked at life like that I suppose I would classify  myself as a pessimist - thankfully I don't. 

I believe we all find therapy in life in some capacity, be it meditation, yoga, exercise, painting, dancing, playing soccer (in my boyfriend's case)...for me it's writing. 

There's something so powerful about the way words come together, something so unbelievably artistic and therapeutic that leaves me ironically speechless.

I wrote this poem yesterday...It's titled "Untitled," perhaps someone can help me come up with a proper title based on your interpretation...curiosity consumes me.

Blessed Sunday.

By: Elizabeth Lewin

Obsured. The colors it sits upon the rainbow like a Queen upon her Throne,
Casting a shadow on subjects below.

Wilting the Roses with their fragrant glow they sit frozen in time
As the dew cascades from petal to petal, each stem shriveling onto the ground of a destination unknown.

Dream Deferred.

Life Astray.

Frozen by the shadow of “Mystery Mountain.”

When will the light break the tip of darkness?

When will tears cascade into color once again?

When will the reverent water flow like a river down the slippery slope of time lifting life’s gems one by one?

Dream Deferred.

She will lift the crippled hands of time, each frozen finger, one by one.

The gates of deference will open.

Her warm breath will breathe life into the kaleidoscope of colors surrounding her and blood will lift her weakened body eclipsed by a power not her own.

A mystery no longer.

Victorious she stands, wrapped in the warmth of the sunlight.