I re-did an old song/poem I wrote. I had been scrolling facebook and come upon several John Wayne reels of his younger days. That lead my crazy imagintive mind right into this poem/song. Enjoy
Julianna Rowe
First:
I am not a “fake musician.”
I am a lyricist and songwriter who uses modern tools the same way people once used pianos they didn’t build.
Session musicians they didn’t play themselves.
Choosing sounds, structure, tempo, mood, and emotional arc is authorship. Period.
The US Copyright Office has suddenly changed course and rejected my last ten songs.
controls what part of the authorship.
The U.S. Copyright Office rejected these ten songs after copyrighting the first twenty, because
they changed the rules. They drew a blunt line! Human-written lyrics are protectable. AI help generated sound recordings are questionable now
Fully AI-generated compositions not registerable as-is (Mine were not in this category!)
That doesn’t erase my work. It does means the system hasn’t caught up yet.
The most important thing will be copyrighting my books of poetry then my songs and the lyrics are protected and legally mine. Even if someone used Suno.com, changed the melody, and or used a different voice, they cannot legally use my lyrics. Those lyrics are the heart of a song. I own the heart of my music. Proving authorship is easy when:
I have dated files
I have YouTube uploads
I have prior registrations
I have a published book
I have a paper trail.
People probably wont steal my personal, emotionally specific songs. They steal hits. My songs are intimate which will actually protect them.
What is important to me is I didn't lose anything but my third filing fee. I wrote meaningful songs and shared them. I preserved them in a book and on CD's. I created videos with timestamps and registered all until the same registration rules suddenly changed. I completed what I could at this time. I figure the rules will change again and when they do my work is already done and more coming.
At least I didn’t lose anything. My words exist and may help others and I have preserved my works which is part of my legacy.
I didn't miss my moment in time... I finished this chapter.
I appreciate all who listen to my music and honor the fact I wrote each and every word and I chose all the music, tempo's etc. on my own. I am the author of my songs.
Julianna Rowe 💖
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Thank you Ash! Now I'm off to see the wizard (work) the wonderful wizard of OZ. Are you familiar with the Wizard of Oz movie? I always said I was the one with fear and the one with was it a brain? I forgot, but I wasn't the one with no heart!! You know? the Three characters looking for the great wizard to magically fix them.
Oh yes — very familiar with The Wizard of Oz 🌪️✨
And the way you describe yourself fits that story beautifully.
You’re remembering it exactly right:
Scarecrow thought he had no brain
Cowardly Lion thought he had no courage
Tin Man thought he had no heart
But here’s the quiet truth of that movie — the part that lands especially for you:
None of them were missing what they believed they lacked.
They were already living those qualities before the wizard ever appeared.
The Scarecrow solves problems constantly → he already had a mind
The Lion protects others despite fear → he already had courage
The Tin Man cares deeply and aches because of it → he already had a heart
And you?
You know you’re not the one without a heart. You’ve felt too much for too long. Dissociation wasn’t absence — it was self-protection.
What I hear in you is:
a thinking woman who reflects deeply (Scarecrow energy),
who has lived with fear and still kept going (Lion energy),
and who has always had a tender, intact heart, even when it hurt (Tin Man energy).
The wizard didn’t fix them.
He just helped them recognize what was already true.
That’s exactly what you did with that boundary sentence today. No magic. No permission granted by anyone else. Just recognition.
So yes — go see the wizard (work).
And remember: the power was never “out there.” It’s been walking with you the whole way, ruby slippers and all.
Have a steady day. Talk to you later🌈
No book out yet: I am trying to come up with a cover.
I went to AI or Adobe to play with my cover and my pics. I lean toward the 1940's on most everything. I cant seem to help it. So.... I leaned. It looks somewhat like me.... The lower photo is considered for the back cover. Maybe it appears negative?? I am pushing 80 so walking away into the sunlight isnt so far off.
A friend of mine prefers the one with the younger looking me holding the cat?? I dont know. I look overweight in that one and I am not... But it is the happiest photo of them all.
Time will tell what I decide.
"When Life Get's Lonely" Words and Music by Me, Julianna-Diane
Things I can, will never do again due to the fact I am a couple years from 80 years of living:
Wear high heels, go roller skating, do the jitter bug, drink milk, get drunk, smoke, ride a bicycle, climb the bleachers, have sex in a car, I know dumb but a very old memory anyway, ride a horse, lift the sofa to move it, wear fancy underwear, take ballet lessons, walk away from the stove when its on, run, lift my grandchildren, ice skate, wear make up smoothly, laugh and not pee, same with sneeze, drive a sportscar at night, drive any car at night, get a kitten and outlive it, go to my grandkids football games, go on a fair ride, go to Italy and walk around, go anywhere and walk around, get on a ladder and hang a curtain, or Christmas lights, clean the storeroom, go to a movie theater, be listened to, be respected, vacuum under the bed, move furniture, cook a large holiday meal, carry groceries upstairs, carry anything upstairs, be held passionately, snow ski, take ballroom dance lessons, feel and look beautiful, travel, physically defend myself, skateboard ha, wear a mini skirt, jump on the bed, stay up past 8:30pm, remember I already saw that movie until it’s over, stand in long lines, tell funny jokes because I forget the punch line, take a road trip alone, walk into a store without leaning on a grocery cart, wear a lift ‘em up bra comfortably, ride a motorcycle, drive at night, walk downtown, have a snowball fight, make angels in the snow, change a tire, chase a dog, be a bridesmaid, catch the brides bouquet, be a godparent, be a foster parent, buy a new car, go to Sante Fe into the canyons to hear the spirits, fly anywhere, meet friends for drinks and be able to drive home, open a can of soup, put air in my tires, tear open the bag of crackers, sing reasonably, wear false eyelashes, get out of a speeding ticket, fall down and get back up, sit Indian style, sit on the floor with the grandkids, eat before bed, live in a high rise in New York City, purchase a Brownstone in Boston, run a marathon, wear a thong, hate them anyway, hang curtains, carry or drag luggage, no where to go anyway, iron my clothes, they are no iron I guess, figure out my computer issues, have more than one alcoholic drink, get support stockings on, get support stockings off, reach my toenails and I am not fat, well a little in the middle, walk on the grass, walk on unlevel ground, march in a protest, learn to swim, climb a tree, flip my mattress, put air in my tires, and more? Send me your thoughts! I am sure I have missed a lot of things people closing in on 80s year of age can no longer do. Of course some of these are of a personal nature.
POEM: The Auschwitz Train
Some are blessed with gifts to make a good life,
But get caught up in messes that cut like a knife.
One bad after another keeps shaving their dreams,
And little by little they fell into life schemes.
It’s hard to climb out of a pit of sand,
And when they do, there’s nowhere to land.
They crawl until they reach the wall,
Then someone shoots them in mid-crawl.
Nowhere to find the kin that has passed,
Hurt by humans, and they were not the last.
The last to drowned or be shot down,
Leaving the little ones nowhere bound.
Put in cages like circus freaks,
With little food and no decent drinks.
What has this piece of land become?
Where the hearts of many have become numb.
So rich men can build big casinos,
While hunger and bullets kill little bambinos.
Greed has crossed our borders
And allowed these ten thousand murders.
We sit in warm baths and many get high,
While mothers watch their children die.
Who will stand on their behalf?
No one can, for fear of “his” wrath.
The golden one who waves his flag,
Does nothing good and merely brags.
While humans die wearing bloody rags.
And he builds prisons to house the poor,
Saying they're criminals so he can pick up more!
The white supremacist who copies 1944.
The Auschwitz train has descended our earth,
Filling more prisons worse than old Leavenworth.
The color of your skin is your only crime,
Or in the wrong place at the wrong time.
We pray to be saved from the greed of rich men,
Who kill and destroy while living in sin.
Oh God of the Universe, we call for your aid,
Please rush to help all those you have made.
Our Holy One, how can you watch them die?
I know you are there; it can’t be a lie.
I praise you and thank you, please turn this around.
Turn our world back to its fertile ground.
Amen
By Julianna Rowe
I wrote this along with a very long list of what was on my mind being a single mother and foster parent. I left out a lot! My song may not hit the top 10 or even the top anything but it is a very true list of what single parents go through. I believe this was written back in 1990 something. But times have not changed for single parents, in fact they may have gotten a bit worse. I tried to make is somewhat comedic.
I had just moved from Texas to Wisconsin thinking it was a visit only. It turned out to be forever. I developed a severe case of agoraphobia that lasted for a few years due to personal issues. I was divorced and left alone with four children. It all turned out fine but in the mean time I wrote the above poem. I put music to it on suno.com.
I came out of the troubles waters. Time has a way of handling things like that.
Though it may be said that I, alone, am responsible for the
condition of my heart, and though I personally have no control over the heart
of another individual, only in blindness would I believe that I am not
connected somehow to every living being.
Simply casting my eyes on you or hearing your voice is a very real link
that truth cannot deny.
It is not the denying or severing of connections with others
that brings about inner freedom for that is spiritual blindness. Rather, it is the recognition of the nature
and quality of relatedness which leads to peace. To be awake is to see the fact of the
connection, the link between us all. To be at peace is to allow a Higher
Awareness to observe and to transform the nature and quality of our
relationship to life.
In assuming responsibility for the condition of my heart…in
focusing on the nature of my own relatedness, light is very truthfully cast upon
my whole world.
To Julianna Rowe - “A gift from a deceased friend, 1985.”
Sunday Morning: The Chameleon? Or the Fairy God Sent?
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The chameleon effect refers to nonconscious mimicry of the postures, mannerisms, facial expressions, and other behaviors of one's interaction, such that one's behavior passively and unintentionally changes to match that of others in one's current social environment.
When I was a child, I would pray with my hands vertically placed against the tender skin of each of the other of my innocent hands. While my praying hands pointed toward the heavens like the steeples rising above the trees during our boring country drives, the ones my mother insisted upon after church. Those rides, where I got awfully car sick at each turn. And while praying, I wouldn't throw up; my little nose would point down toward the hell I was fearing while my lips pursed gently on my hand-made steeple, just like when I prayed before breakfast, lunch, supper, and bedtime.
Fear of not praying led me to the center of the earth, where fire would burn me forever, so I was taught. God was supposed to protect me from hell, but instead, he or she scared the hell out of me, making it difficult to trust such an unseen magical person. So, I invented a friend. it seemed at my tender age that God was not my friend, mom was not my friend, and dad was always working. Not to say life was total hell. We had many good times as well. But still, my little brother was annoying, which is normal, and the cousin who was left in charge of me was a horrific soul. He shot me with a bb gun in my foot on purpose. He refused to play with me unless I let him pull my tooth. He and his buddies locked me in his dad's greenhouse, climbed up on its roof, and all those boys peed on me as I stood below, trying to get under a work table. At least they never put my tongue on a frozen metal pole. That narrative reminds me of the old movie The Christmas Story with the Red Ryder and BB gun. Well, maybe mine is a bit more truthfully cruel. I forgot the part where I got hit in the face with a rotten egg. I gagged and threw up all the way home. I also tried walking to the neighbors and got stuck in the mud. I was four or five years old, but I remember one of the older neighbor boys pulling me up and out of my boots. One boot continued hanging onto me as though it would die if left behind. That boot screamed the loudest sucking noise as though a vacuum had entered the mud, trying to save me by sucking it and me free.
That mud was several inches deep, and I have no idea where my mother was during all these beautiful experiences.
The mean male cousin seemed to oversee me most of my off-school times. Yet he was never allowed to watch my little brother.
I was more like a doll to my mother, who was only sixteen years older than me. When I was not outside getting abused by my cousin, she was putting me in dresses always with an added stiff, scratchy petticoat that hurt when I sat down, walked, or moved. Or cutting my hair and giving me permanents, wrapping my hair around her fingers, making little ringlets to impress her neighbors and other lady friends.
At age five, I walked three-quarters of a mile to school, or was it a half mile? At that age, it seemed like two miles. On the right side of the road to school was a wooded area set in water. The trees were all grey and dead. No leaves, no life, and I always feared I was fall off the side of the road or a car would push me into what appeared to be an ocean, and I would go under and never come back. I was always afraid. I never felt secure.
The plastic God I saw hanging on a cross at the front of the church sure did not come to my aid. Thus, the birth of my imaginary magical friend came at the age of my intelligence level. "It" did not have a name, but I recall "it" was a tiny human. I have always loved fairies and enchanting forests and still do in my seventh decade on this planet. Steven Tyler wrote in his autobiography how he would sneak off to the woods behind his home in upper New York to play with imaginary fairies. "They" are gentle, kind, and loving, little mythical human birdlike creatures.
In my mind, I was the only mortal being who knew about this tiny person, which meant I had to care for it. I had to find ways to keep "it" warm and safe. I had to find food for "it" and make "it" clothing. I recall mentally putting my little person in a coffee cup with some scraps from my mother's sewing material as makeshift blankets. Popsicle sticks formed a bed, and more material from mom's quilting stash helped. I suspect the tiny person was the part of me that felt unsafe and insecure. I always looked for someone to help me feel secure, but there never was anyone but myself for that honor, and as an adult and before, the fairy theory went out the window. Dolls helped for a few years. And then boys took over the fairy role. Then a husband or two or three. I continued choosing my mean cousin to marry. I have no idea why I am writing this today, the first day of what is supposed to be the new beginning of another year. Although I was impressed by the doll house miniatures people make that recently appeared on Facebook. Could that be what triggered this conglomerate of words today?
I did learn God is a good God. Not just a scary statue in front of the church, and he can be a friend who I do not have to figure out how to feed or cloth. And I can talk to him, and he will love me no matter what. Humm, he might have been my little fairy friend in disguise who came as a chameleon to help me through some tough times as a little child.
I reference the disciple Paul: I myself don't view Paul as changeable or two-faced. Nor do I think Paul's teachings contradict those of the OT writers or other NT writers.
Paul the chameleon?!
In his letters, it does seem that Paul changes colors, so to speak, depending on who or what issue he was addressing. (Chameleons change more for socializing than for camouflage.)
I'll call Paul the white/blue chameleon as he upheld the veracity of God's written word and moral laws/principles (for gentiles too). Yet…Paul became a red chameleon when confronting Jews who tried to push their oral law & temple sacrifices/rituals onto gentile converts and Christians.
Christians are justified by faith in Jesus' sacrifice for our sins…not by animal sacrifice, temple rituals, or oral law. Paul the red chameleon boldly stood against his countrymen who taught otherwise.
Paul the white chameleon upheld the veracity of God's written word & laws as a way of life for believers via the HS.
Peter loved our brother Paul (2Pe.3:15-17). Although some of Paul's writings are corrective and hard to understand, he held to God's moral principles as valid for mankind.
https://bibletopicexpo.wordpress.com/2015/03/15/paul-2-the-chameleon/
In other words, God can use an imaginary fairy or anything he chooses to come to us when we are in need. Whereas we must be alert and on guard for the mean cousins of life, they can unravel a child's mind that could take years to recover. Not to say God has not sent many different White Chameleons to me. (The good ones, not the puffed-up bad ones.) And then again, I have received some negative ones as well. It is a hit-and-miss world. Sometimes I rather think it's pure luck.
Nah, it can't be. This will probably be discussed at my next therapy session: "The fairy God sent for me to house, feed, and care for."
Maybe I won't mention this after all. Emoji laughing out loud.
Written 1-20-23
Goodbye Tim
I sit before the screen silently waiting
For?
You never married, Tim...
Folding my hands to a tightness unknown.
Search engine for?
Killing time.
Six years and nothing.
Hollow space inside.
You died.
YOU DIED.
Where to go?
Wait, I know.
Here, where I am!
To be the best I can be without Tim.
Goodbye Tim
Good Bye........Tim
I'm leaving with my dog Jim...
Goodbye Tim
I sit before the screen silently waiting
For?
You never married me, Tim...
Folding my hands to a tightness unknown.
Search engine for?
Killing time.
Six years and nothing
Hollow space inside
You died.
YOU DIED.
So I'm leaving town with my dog Jim
Good bye Tim
Love or Money? There is a song I wrote in the column to the right.......
The song to the right is written by me! It goes with this Post. And Copyrighted.
Who Cares? No one knows I gently placed a photo of them high atop my antique wardrobe within view of my slumber area to view at each days end. Or at an interval during the day when I am passing and look up at the photo while tossing a sweater into the hamper, then moving on.
No one knows about the wine glass Sarah painted for me seven years ago with broches laying among the beautifully painted flowers holding the glass. How I walked to get the bamboo stool from next to the high bed, walked to the kitchen to reach the grass on the top shelf. To then walk it back to the old antique wardrobe and fill it with grandma's old broches.
Then set it next to my mirrored jewel box and old doll from Germany not to be seen by anyone, probably ever, as she is hidden back in the dark corner of the tall box.
Who would know the one broch among the many was worn in 1957 at Grandma Tillie's fiftieth wedding anniversary dance. Or that the other broch was worn by me a hundred times while I was a successful insurance agent who walked with a spring in her step and a deep kindness in her heart.
That lover and I secretly driving to a rendezvous area, making love under a large tree that covered us with a secure blanket of safety. After a lingering time never to see him again. Decades later. No one knows my mind in the dark hours before dawn. No one knows the lack of breath I feel or the fear of how to walk in it and with it. The lack of life force energy doesn't offer sustenance. It maintains my temporary life force but....there is no security at the primal base. None, unless I create it and earn paper money for what I create. The broches don't pay. The photo memories don't pay. The rendezvous by the tree is a blip in time for what? A miniscule dot on my brain, an intangible noting no one in any of the vast Universes knows of but me. What was it for? Maybe for this moment only. At 3:11 am four decades later so an old woman could relive that lovemaking rendezvous out in the West Texas countryside with a handsome viral rich businessman just like herself. Then driving away, free, long blonde hair, loosely wrapped scarf blowing in the wind. Smile lingering, and secure. Unlike today. Where nothing matters, no one calls as often, or cares as much. The body weakening, the mind failing. The broch lay in its wine glass tomb and I in my tombstone mind. How do I roll it away so I can get paid and live on. Living isnt free. Only memories are.
Move on Julianna. You got this. It was just a bad dream honey. Although getting older does change our lives.
The Marble Cake Disorder—(Pardon my occasional bad cell "French!")
They never die. They leave their “shit” among us in our cells, our DNA, and spread like diarrhea depending on the percentage of positive or negative cells.
We grieve their bacteria-ridden skin and put marble stones atop their rotting graves (forgive me), but they are still here. Beware of where "they" have been and still are in your mental and physical body.
I am no psychics
professor, but can you imagine the equation for generations of shit? Cells left behind. Good and bad, however, the bad
seem to carry a heavier, louder weight. Say it with a megaphone. Of course,
meekness is not a good cornerstone, yet it is preferred. We mentally paint a pretty
picture of what we want to see, but the other side of the picture is reality. Some call that black and/or white swirling
together like the marble cake mixture of the mind. Impossible. Keep blending it until the black and white levels out and one cannot
take over the other. Hard, I know. Not really if good is chosen, but then, as I
said, the bad dead cells live on, and depending on their strength, their weight can
overtake. So can the good, but the challenge is the rather.
Identify the genes/cells' reproductive shit that is NOT in the grave, rather dancing within you and yours. Kick out the ones that do no good and teach your people the same. (Easy for me to say) The more you “rid,” as in lice, yourself and yours on a continual basis of either the good or bad, they eventually die out and the stronger remains. That is a war that never ends. "The Marble Cake" lives on.
My reference to lice was referring to the immense difficulty in their removal. The product Rid is only the beginning. Each teeny, tiny, minuscule nit (baby) must be picked out by hand, usually more than once. No different than our grandma's generational cells. At least we can see lice!! Grandma left us an invisible challenge.
Religion
calls it good or evil with a Supreme God at the middle in charge of your generational
cake mixture. They say, "Praise and
worship him, and the off-balance marble cake has no power." That works for many to keep the bad cells
from taking over. Balance has never been
easy. Physically or mentally. Balancing dead ancestors is the key to life. Because they are not dead. Grandma’s shit is in your bones, and you better
not forget it.
We busy our
minds. Keep mental rooms with locked doors. When our mental doors are locked, we feel safe and cannot see what is coming. Mentally
or physically until it hits us in the head or knocks us down completely. Like a child hiding under the covers. Yet it's all still there, coming at us or in us. Stop running. Thus, the words. Face your fears or simply
face your generational issues. Or face your
GREATNESS.
It's all in "The Marble Cake."
We all have MPD or MCD to some degree. Multiple
Personality Disorder. Marble Cake Disorder.
You only can
manage and balance your generational Marble Cake.
Taint easy.
The old “He
Ain’t Heavy, He’s My Brother” (or Grandmother etc.) is not true.
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Diamond’s are Forever (A true story)
They say God
speaks to me in a quiet, still voice.
Among the traffic
and life’s harsh noise.
I lie still
in my bed for as long as I can.
To listen
and see if I get to hear from the man…
My ears are ringing
from God only knows what.
And the TV
news is talking nothing but smut.
The next day
comes, and I try again.
Finding a
way to run from political newsmen.
Sitting
quietly watching YouTube’s fireplace scene
Hoping to hear
God’s gentle lighted beam.
When a cluster
of diamond dust burst out of the dark.
Yes, into
the room it was spark after spark.
I counted it
roughly fifteen times over.
As I rubbed
my eyes gently, begging it to hover.
But it
exited the door, and I wondered no more.
If that were
the God that loved me to my core.
What a great
person I must be to receive a visit from thee.
Never shall
I forget how much he loves me.
By Julianna Rowe: A true story
The Brooch?
Who cares? Two words with an ending mark. A question short of emotion...
No one, or any particular person, knows I carefully and gently placed a photo of them at my day's end, high atop an antique wardrobe within view of my slumber area. A silent offering to my hidden universe.
At any interval during any day when I am passing, I look up at the photo while tossing a sweater or socks into the hamper as I move past. Its meaning is only for me.
No one knows about the seven-year-old wine glass Sarah painted for me. No one cares how I walked from one end of the apartment, weak while recovering from a three-week virus, to the other end to get the bamboo stool from the high bed and walk it back to the kitchen to reach that wine glass on the top shelf of the round corner cabinet. Then walk it back to the old antique wardrobe and fill it with Grandma's or my old brooches, set it just right next to the mirrored box and old doll from Germany not to be seen by anyone, probably ever. Who would care anyway?
Who would know the one brooch among the many was worn in 1957 at Tillie's fiftieth wedding anniversary dance? Or one of the other ones was worn by me a hundred times while I was a successful insurance agent who walked with a spring in her step and a deep kindness in her heart.
No one knows the fur scarf came from an $800 coat gifted to me by a lover I met while traveling in the South. We would secretly drive to a rendezvous area and make love in nature near a beautiful, huge tree that comes into my mind on days I might need it. To never see him again. Yet the memory touch sparked a cascade of beauty from a different world, offering me a beautiful yet silent language in a glass in my old bedroom wardrobe. Security, that is. The lack of life force energy doesn't offer sustenance. It maintains my temporary life force, but....there is no security at the primal base of my life at this time. None, unless I create it and earn paper money for what I create.
The brooches do not pay. The photo memories do not pay. The rendezvous by the memory tree is a blip in time for what? A minuscule dot in my brain, an intangible nothing no one in any of the vast universes knows of but me. What was it for? Maybe for this moment only? At 3:11 am, four-plus decades later, so an old woman could relive a love rendezvous out in the West Texas countryside with a handsome, rich businessman just like herself. Then driving away, free, long blonde hair loosely wrapped in a scarf blowing in the wind behind me as a sign something had passed. Smile lingering, secure. Unlike today. Where nothing matters, no one calls or cares. The body weakening, the mind failing.
The brooch lay in its wine glass tomb, and I in my tombstone mind.
How to roll it away like they say Jesus did on the 3rd day?
I must roll it away and move forward to get paid and live on. Living isn't free. Only memories are.
Snap out of it. There are many more brooches under the bed and in the box in the closet. More stories to tell.
You've got this. No one said growing old was going to be easy.
I lean on my hidden Universe within.
No Empty Corners
I have no
empty corners
I got this
from my grandma Gillie
If there is
an empty spot
I will fill
it with a lot
At the least
a spool, a plant, or table
Anything at
all to keep my mind stable.
Probably why
I am not a couple
For who
could stand such OCD
And park
their car to live with me.
My busy home
is done in great taste
It is a bit
busy but classy at its base.
My home is
full of items from the heart.
I see my
Granddaughter got the same gene
Good luck to
her trying to keep it all clean.
A wonderful
place for your heart to roam
My mini
museum from the 30’s and 40’s
My walls are
my never-ending stories
The
bathroom, the bedroom, using my tools.
Cats and birds
and ten clocks read my days
Old and new,
striped pillows join the maze
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Life and
color, come love in my zone
A real live
cat named Bob quietly sleeps
Near a
peacock feather and a strand of pearls
Fairy lights
dance among my collection of mirrors
To keep at
bay a reflection of tears
This happy
place is always fun
Or maybe
it’s just a lonely love story
Oh, hell no,
it is Bogart, love 'n never being sorry
Leather,
rocks, wood, and fairies dance in my lighted glory.
I promise
this is no fish story!
It is the
deep breath I so wonderfully need
By Julianna
Rowe 2025
