The Forgotton Spots by Sheila Hall

•March 11, 2016 • Leave a Comment


The Forgotten Spots

He sits across from me, staring out the window in contemplative silence.  The café may be bustling around us but our tiny bubble is undisturbed, leaving me time to observe the gift in front of me without reproach.

His hair is in disarray, along with the haphazard clothing he dressed in this morning.  The shadows along his jaw are deep from days without the use of a razor.  The hand and arm that’s casually slung over the back of his booth shows the signs of his harsh trade.  Scars and calluses mark the topography of his fingers.  The weight of years shows along his skin and body, time taking its due from youth.

No.  He is not the type that would catch a woman’s eye passing down the street.  He blends in and is accepted as part of the chorus, not the star dancing center stage.  He is too dark and unapproachable; hard looks and rounded curves.

But I know the softness of his touch and the love in his heart.

The laughter in his voice and the fondness of his tone: whispers of secrets and promises during the long winter nights.

The sounds as he breathes when lost deep within his dreams.

The warmth and safety found within his arms.

The pain reflected in his blood-shot eyes, streaked in tears, while we wait for my test results.

I know all his forgotten spots and there is where his beauty is most overwhelming.  Through my eyes, each piece is breathtaking and heart-stopping.  I can barely breathe through the sudden intensity of love I feel for this man.

As if feeling the intensity of my gaze, he turns his head and smiles.

And he is beautiful.

Sheila Hall ©

Art work: Cafe Terrace at Night by Vincent Van Gogh



A New Year

•January 1, 2015 • 1 Comment

Forest Walk by Tom Baetsen


A New Year
A time for renewal
A time for rebirth

A time for beginnings.

Sheila Hall ©


Art: Forest Walk by Tom Baetsen

The Calm

•July 12, 2014 • Leave a Comment

Moonlight night



The moon, pregnant with her glow,
shines down tonight.

It is not the sun and its warmth
that lead me to the calm.

It is not the wind and its freedom
that leave me with peace.

It is the moon
that cools my heated blood,
that soothes the inner beast,
that leaves me in contentment
wrapped up in love.

© Sheila Hall



•June 16, 2014 • Leave a Comment

Vibrant Colors by Victor Figol

Writers are different for no other reason than we tend to be more intense.

Everything becomes sharper, the colors more vibrant.
Emotions run hotter, run deeper and we drown in our own feelings.
Life threads connecting to each other become more apparent.

Each part fights for center stage and the noise is deafening.

All the things that make us a breed apart also makes us harder to deal with.

We are… intense.


Artwork: Vibrant Colors by Victor Figol


•May 19, 2014 • 1 Comment

There was a time that I did not understand addiction.

I would sit back and see others struggle with their vices, not comprehending the driving forces behind their desperation.

But now…

Now I know the power. I feel the drive.

I am haunted by the memories or you. The smell of your skin, the taste of your essence. The call of your voice echoes throughout these lonely nights.

Every cell in my body cries out for more, just a little more.

What I wouldn’t give to have you again.

I light up another cigarette, inhaling its toxic numbness, in a futile attempt to satisfy what I can no longer have.

Siren by Sheila Hall

•December 26, 2013 • 2 Comments

Waves crashing

She sings her Siren’s lullaby
Calling across the waves
A song of lovers loved and lost
Echoes within my cave.

Her notes like dying stars
Falling to their tomb,
I feel the weight of each soul.
Her words like thorns
Cut through the winds
My need beginning to grow.

A woman I am
A woman alone
I long to hold her true;
Crawling forth, I tread
Into the dying light
My Siren’s path marked anew.

Sheila Hall ©

She Is Beautiful by Sheila Hall

•December 21, 2013 • 1 Comment

Sweat soaked sheets
Cradling her undulating frame.

Ripped panties
Cling to one ankle.

Crawling down her cheeks.

Reddened skin shaped into a handprint;
Mosaic decorating her ass.

Promises of more…

And she is beautiful.

Sheila Hall ©


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