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Reaching back into the old box of forgotten writings, I happened to find one of my more uplifting poems. I don’t remember what I was thinking about when I wrote this, but I imagine either I was a great traveler or took one in. The speaker of the poem took in someone who had stories to share. I wonder whom I thought the traveler was and what great stories they held. I was fifteen when I wrote this. Come In From The Storm September 7, 2004 Come in from the storm Come in from the rain Dry your clothes before the fire And warm your shoes before the hot coals. Tell me about yourself And let me listen to your stories. I’m really interested To hear about your travels And know why you are wary. Your horse is looked after In the stables Your luggage is by the door Your coat is on the hook With your hat resting beside. A warm dinner will soon be ready And the coffee is almost done Relax, close your eyes Be peaceful and dream. Come in from the storm Come in from the rain Dry your clothes before the fire And warm your shoes by the hot coals. Tell me about yourself And let me listen to your stories. I’m really interested To hear about your travels And know why you are wary.

Time for another Historical Halley, a series where I share some of my deep dark childhood writings. Today’s dusty poem was written when I was fourteen. I felt so alone during my middle and high school years. Things were so different than elementary school and I realized I wasn’t part of any group. I was an outcast and alone. I didn’t want to be different, but I was. I often wondered if I would fit in if I pretended to be like everyone else. I never did. The Masks I Wear February 21, 2003 I wear a thousand masks, Each one different from the last. I’m afraid to take the masks off, But none of them are me. One shows that I’m cool, Another shows that I’m hot And yet another shows that I’m sexy. One shows that I’m in command and that I need no one, But beneath it all is the real me. The me that is confused and scared. The me that is alone. My masks hide what I feel so that no one knows. I’m afraid that nobody will like the real me And that they will laugh at me. I’m afraid that I am nothing beneath the masks I wear. Do you believe what I write or what you see? What mask do you see when you look at me? Do you see the real me or the masks I wear?

Today, I thought I would dig into the crypts of my old writings. I had a bit of an unstable childhood with a lot of negative experiences. Writing was my only true friend. I never kept up with a diary for various reasons, but I did write what I thought qualified as poetry. Below is a poem I managed to share with other people. I received some positive feedback about this particular poem. I hope you enjoy it. Please note that I did not edit it beyond looking for spelling mistakes. This is the original and raw poem written by a fourteen-year-old girl who felt so alone in the world. The Invisible Girl September 27th, 2003 She was a lonely girl She had no friends. She once had had friends, But they stopped noticing she was there. They would meet somewhere and she would be there But they didn’t know she was. She followed them, Trying to get them to notice her. They kept on ignoring her And soon she gave up. They say that one day she looked in the mirror But reflection she saw none. It was like she wasn’t there. she had become invisible And could not be heard. Her family never even realized she wasn’t there. They never even mentioned her, Where she had gone, or if she would come back. They say they never heard from her again No one bothered to ask why. Little did they know, She was there Wandering around Trying to…