I visit my youthful stomping ground less and less each year. Somehow, the place seems damaged to me. Like a ripe apple that has fallen into the grass. It might be shiny and delicious looking on the top, but when you bend to pick it up, you can see it’s mushy and bruised underneath.
don’t judge fallen fruit
by the color of its skin
rot begins inside
Futile musings of an old ghost
Ramblings
Footprints of a Witness.
Poetry, short stories and a smidgen of real-life drama
Living slowly, adventuring often ✨️
The Poems of Sam Bartle
Gabriela Marie Milton - Three Times #1 Amazon Bestselling Poet, Pushcart Nominee, Publisher
Where curiosity meets opportunity
The musings and ramblings of a young poet.
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Life is a story, waiting to be told
Daydreaming and then, maybe, writing a poem about it. And that's my life.
Our thoughts define us, so let's focus on a few.
Jerry Brotherton 
I went back to the farm I grew up on and was devastated. The fields my father farmed, producing with such care lay fallow, a mass of weeds and bare spots. The laneway overgrown with boulders to make sure no went down. The house was torn down and the barn just a stack of rotten wood for years now.
It was heartbreaking to see. So much fun, joy, hard work, caring and love were once there.
No more.
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