Featured Post: The Well of Loneliness – Candice Louisa Daquin

Getting ready for work
Bag on the table
long 10 denier
black hose
so fine
makes legs look like swans
dark and sleek and endless
the way you’d like to be
dressed in costume
the person you want
gradually painted on
first the eyes, dramatic and smoky
lips full and plump the youthful devotee
cheeks pinched and shy
complexion covered with dye
hide the flaw
hide the truth
hide yourself
be someone new
getting ready for work
never ready for life
picking up habits of preservation
in the early morning light
what works here
what shows there
a fallen hem
a lost pin
shoulders too large
hips too narrow
breasts lurching to breathe out
an invert triangle
wiggling into yourself
trying to get out
of being legitimate
the role of responsibility
both necessary and loathed
a little toast, a little wine
the rattle of pills
medicated time
protecting ourselves from the glare
of the social climb.

Read more of Candice Louisa Daquin’s work at The Feathered Sleep and at Whisper and The Roar. You can also follow her Facebook – Candice Louisa Daquin & The Feathered Sleep.

Featured Post: The Well of Loneliness – Marie Prichard

The well
As it was in the beginning
Overflowing with wonderment
Cascading toward the future
Turned bone-brittle dry
From a series of generational choices
Infiltrated with unanswered questions
And unspoken cries of despair
Echoes crashing against
The chipped stone walls
Reverberating to the beyond
Admonitions calling your name
The ‘once was’
A shadowless empty shell
Wandering amongst ruins
Into nothingness
Slowly settling
Adding layer upon layer
Of loneliness
Covering the relics
At the bottom
To where it all began
When the well was abundantly full
Giving sustenance to a life



Marie Prichard is a longtime writer and educator. She lives on an island in the Pacific Northwest with her wife, their two wiener dogs, and a Munchkin cat. She loves reading, writing, walking the beach, and filling her wife’s pockets with heart rocks. You can read more of her writing on Medium

Featured Post: The Well of Loneliness – Sean Heather McGraw

I always thought
That I was prone to losing them right
After I came out or
At some point along the journey

(But growing up, everyone knew who I would be.)

My church saw
Only condemnation of our love
It promised to me a
Life of holy celibacy.

(Because we don’t deserve to be happy.)

To feel that unloved by every soul
That they demand my pain
— suffering – and call it just reward

(Only they deserve happiness and love.)

When she wrote
The Well of Loneliness, Radclyffe Hall,
She knew we all would crash
Why do people hurt the Other ones?

(One group defines itself by hatred for the outsider.)

Never felt more
Truth in her plea for mercy, for love.
Humans tend to harm those
already burdened and blame them-

(As if all people get exactly what they deserve.)

pain evidence
to them that we did wrong and deserve
punishment, and anguish.
Didn’t Christ say of the blind man that

(Christ, do you love me?)

Did not sin,
Nor his parents, but that his healing
Would show the great glory
Of God, and even the woman

(Can I be healed?)

Sinned was not
Condemned and their hypocrisy was
Known to all for they were
Greater sinners for their judgement.

(How ironic to be condemned for my love for her.)

I look at
Her face my joy is all unbounded.
In daytime and nighttime
Her face shines from the well’s water.

(Can you try to feel as I feel?)

My heart screams
Radclyffe. Don’t drown, we will save you now.
Reach out your hands to mine.
Light beams sparkles on the water.

(In our embrace are we healed.)

Sean Heather K. McGraw is a historian and adjunct lecturer and received a doctorate in European History from the University at Albany. She has worked as a public librarian and as an NPS Tour Guide. She has published a middle-school textbook, How the Irish Saved America, the forthcoming After Stonewall and a children’s book, Fiona and the Dragon. In her spare time, she plays her harp, rescues animals and serves as a member of the Coast Guard Auxiliary.

You can find Sean on Patreon and Facebook.




little generational differences – mb

laughing a little in the dream i had a roasted turnip with paprika for breakfast maybe that’s it it’s noon on Alpha Omega how does that work for you there is loneliness in her jeer but she keeps at me i’m not beautiful like a spring breeze i’m not delicate like a feather i cannot be a ballerina with two stone feet i am nothing and i cannot write pretty words like the zenith is your eyes i write rusted words like hurt me with your tongue knife and my ideas weigh like mercury on mars but she the Venus does not mind when i do her bidding our way of seeing life is very different i smitten with the downtown proletariat she with uptown well to do’s i can’t believe you are my daughter i know i say that i agree with you it’s too late momma i’m half way gone it’s best this way no hard feelins’ right i know punctuation and the grammar rules real fine but my lips shoot out the poisons thought of in my heart perhaps if reincarnation does abide the cosmic rules she’s supposed to follow i will come back as a super model just for you but now you’re gone and i see you in the clouds above in periwinkle linen and jewels the color of God’s eyes i heard you mother all of our unhappy life together and while on earth your words did bite me i also learned to use their teeth to cut my noose i ran away and did it my way it nearly killed me too but rest assured that in your way as a mother that you were your raising helped me through

“i observe the world around me then translate what i see through words and visuals as a form of meditation and at times penance”

mb is a Gen Xer born and raised in urban Los Angeles who chronicles the art form of living in the Angelino metropolis her offerings are inspired by the mental health crisis in the city everyday observations and human nature interjected with fiction based on non-fictional intimate events

mb battles depression and anxiety but utilizes writing and art to self-regulate she began writing again as a self-promise after being AWOL from the process for several years

you can read more of mb’s writing at WORDS LESS SPOKEN

Featured Post: The Well Of Loneliness – Robert G Wertzler

The well of loneliness is deep
So deep, a hand reaching in
Cannot stretch to hold

The well of loneliness is dark
So dark, a light shined in
Is eaten up by shadow

The well of loneliness is cold
So cold, a torch of love dropped in
Is chilled to shards of ice

The walls drip with tears
The walls are slick with fear
The walls show no hand hold

In this inversion of a castle tower
With not even a high window
You can dream or pray for some
Long tressed Rapunzel to come
Let down her hair and pull you up

Where, for you is that cake
That made Alice grow so tall
And you tall enough to reach
The rim a climb out?

Could you cry tears enough
To fill it up and float up and out?
Oh, it seems many nights you could

If only you could grow wings
Wings of Faerie kind
Or wings of Dragon kind
To fly up and out and
Join a flock and soar

In truth, you are not alone
In this isolation,
Or need not be
You are legion
The lonely are a multitude

This Well of yours is
Built of Silence
Dug with Shame
And walled with Lies
Preached for ages
Lift your voice
Speak, sing, cry out
In lifting up your voice
Make yourself known
With your voice you
Can build a stairway
Out of that bitter Well

Bob Wertzler is retired from almost twenty years in the mental health field in California and Arizona. There are times the title, “Recovering Therapist”, seems to fit. In 2006 he retired to move to Western North Carolina to help and become primary care giver for his father who had developed Dementia. Before all that, there was work at various times as a soldier (US Army 1967-70), community organizer, cab driver, welfare case worker, wooden toy maker, carpenter, warehouse worker, and other things. He relates to a line in a Grateful Dead song, “What a long, strange trip its been.”

Featured Post: The Well of Loneliness – M.A. Morris

Searching for something
In this void
Of fatigue–
A tender touch
Or warm skin to lie against,
A hope to grasp
When against slick

Hours pass.
Anger and sadness silently left
And closed the door.

But the heart is chambered
Like a shell,
Swirling down within itself
Until reaching a breaking point
Of being long overdrawn,
Overworked, over tired,

Still learning in the stillness
Of time mixed with languages
Neither known nor understood
At all.

When there be no common ground
To stand upon–
A start, a beginning is lost.
In the travels
To find new shores
In this age
Without directions
Or something resembling
The instruction manual.

Turn to ask a friend,
“How does that dialogue go again?”
But there is no answer
In the old cliché’ of “seek and ye shall find”
You’ve knocked upon the door
And no one answered.

Live days in monastic silence,
Find it difficult to voice an answer
To the Walmart clerk saying,
“Have a nice day!”

Every night
Crawl downward and in,
Say a small, silent fervent prayer—
“I will always miss you
And I will always love you.
May my soul find you.”

Waking in fragments
To find it is time
For glue and duct tape.
They fix anything
That needs to be held
At the bottom
Of the well.

I am a retired teacher, enjoying said retirement.  I have been active in the gay and lesbian community since I threw away my Ken doll at the age of four.

You can read more of my writing at Hearing The Mermaids Sing