Today I sat under the pear tree
Leaned my back against its trunk
Propped up my legs and spilled inside my journal
The autumn chill felt much like winter
I wrote carefully my thoughts as they consumed my mind
Thinking seemed to be one tracked
“How to undo this web of mess I’ve begun”
The fervor of rage has taken my peace
Replaced it with fumes of detestation
Breeding inside was a declared destruction
I saw outside myself, to look inward
Epiphanies weren’t new ideas
Just the old worn ignored thoughts that were newly dressed
As I sat and pondered,
The road to hell seemed closer than I desired
It seems I have traveled this back alley for some time
The tunnel I chose as a short cut brought me closer to dysfunction
With my face cupped in my hands, newer embarrassment formed
“Shame on Me”
You were raised better, have a relationship with the Almighty stronger than ever
So how do you allow yourself to get here?
Warring myself to ward off my inner evil…
You aren’t the portrayal that others claimed you to be
Yet, suddenly, you decide to prove them, right?
What kind of hell you done dropped yourself into?
I was harder on myself than ever
Words dropped onto the paper in fury, I was having a conversation with myself
But was I listening?
The wind shook the leaves, they fell upon the pages
I sat there to stare
I then became focused with one leaf
I studied it front and back
The crisp and dying edges, the three in one coloring
The way it fell wasn’t a plummeting fall upon my lap
It fell gracefully
Floating until it reached a safer haven
Carrying with it… a message
Ah, now I see,
I turned the page in my journal and I paused for a long moment
Seems like hours which only transferred into reality time…
a few brief seconds
Sometimes we fall so we can get back up…
But when you do, don’t plunge hard, don’t hurt yourself
Fall with some grace and dignity…
Then GET UP!
No, that leaf will never get back up,
Perhaps turn into fertilizer for the soil of the earth
In an instance, a rebirth
A reincarnation of some sort
A recycled existence
Then again, maybe its purpose was fulfilled
Just by falling upon my lap…
To direct me to my purpose!
© Shantelle ‘Elle’ McLin
Excerpt from the book Beyond Nursery Rhymes; Real Life Tales
About the Author
Recreational writing began for this author at the age of 9 in journal formatting. Her creativeness was sparked in Middle school during a notable visit to the library with her best friend. With an outdated range of selections, she instantly identified with the poets’ generations before her; she had found her outlet. While facing great personal difficulties, Elle treated poetry as a feel-good remedy to her melancholic episodes. This would become freeing to a young and timid adolescent, as she discovered her voice. Writing would become a soother and her pen, a microphone to express her challenges.
Visit Elle’s Author Page At www.ctupublishinggroup.com/shantelle-elle-mclin.html