Colleen Walters
Bio
Just a girl who likes to write poems, usually inspired by events and people in my Florida life.. Always be you, because you are awesome. You matter. You are enough. ❤️
You can find me also on Facebook & Messenger and Discord
Stories (946)
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Romance for One
She sits at the red light, cars whizzing by become a blur as she daydreams about her bed. She’s not tired at all, but she loves the time she spends in this bed. I mean, who wouldn’t want to sleep in a fairy bed? The canopy drapes down and tied with white ribbon, the string of lights cast a warm glow onto the fleece blankets below. It’s a sensory experience, her cool skin covered by soft warm fleece, she nestles in to the soft folds as if snuggling with a clandestine lover… the light has turned green. The traffic is especially busy, vehicles are weaving in and out of the lanes like they’re knitting a sweater. She finally makes it home unscathed, and turns some lights on in the house as the sun slowly dips below the horizon. One push of a remote button brings the bed canopy to life, the lights softly illuminating the velvety fleece. There’s no doubt about it- this is one lovely bed. A few hours pass and it’s bed time- something that she looks forward to. Bedtime routine rarely changes, floss, waterpik, brushing teeth and then sloshing some mouthwash around in there. The moment she’s been waiting for has finally arrived. She sheds her clothes and feels the chilly air. She doesn’t waste any time sliding between the fleece blankets, the warmth is sudden and it makes her smile. She feels her body warming up as the fleece caresses her. And then she reaches for the remote, shuts the lights off, and slowly drifts off to a far away place
By Colleen Walters2 years ago in Poets
Don’t Try Me
One day you’re married. To a guy you’ve been with almost 29 years. And then the next day, you’re single. A numb, dumbstruck widow. A widow is defined by Merriam-Webster as “ a woman whose spouse or partner has died and usually has not remarried”. Some women are relieved to become widows, and perhaps even happy about it.
By Colleen Walters2 years ago in Poets
Burn the Ships
I smell like smoke. My hair, my clothes, probably my breath. I grew up in Canada and we had wood-burning stoves for heat, so we all smelled like smoke, all the time. We were nose blind to it. What a weird saying.” to be nose blind.” but we all know what it means without having to be educated on it. As I got older, smelling like smoke was one of those things that either meant you were at a bonfire with friends and having a wonderful time, or you were working out in the field,burning brush and dead trees. Both of those scenarios being favorable to just sitting in the house watching TV.
By Colleen Walters2 years ago in Poets
