Monthly Archives: February 2014

Storm poem



 The storm of winter sank into us,

Her breath rough and ragged,

After the heat of late autumn-

A wind that blew dominant-

She sang, a woman scorned

And ranted and raved.

Its from this she was born-

Cried much like a babe


But there was trade to begotten

And jewels to be hoarded,

Gold deep under caves,

And it mustn’t be forgotten,

There was land to explore-

Via ship on the wave


Don’t go, I said,

At a place everyone knew

It was with a feeling of dread,

And it was all I could do,

As I sipped at my brew

Not to whack them over the head


Though it did all it could,

This ship that went under

Because of pirates-

No wonder-

Just as I’d mentioned it would.

The screams were like thunder-

Of poison, of plunder-

They were the cries of nobody good.



Back in the harbor,

They called me a witch;

So I began to kick and yell,

“Bitch! “

“It was nothing I wanted,”

But it was done,

They were already under my spell.





By Shawnna Burt


Sharing my deepest thoughts with the world isnt easy. im not really a public persona. Im quiet. i like to hide. dont like attention. it’s something I must get over.

I feel like to make a change in anything you have to sort of be willing to split open.

Nothing worth having is ever easy.

Beating heart poem

“Beating heart”

Beyond the clouds, 
Beyond the nite
Like virgin snow
And burning bright

i know her – she is the dove
Her simple beating hearts a cure
Seems like the closest thing to love
There is an an angel, of this I’m sure
Beyond a bloody hell that’s pure.
She lifts me up
Her movements lithe
She hands me a cup
into this she pours my life

“Drink it now, break free anew
Before the devil steals it away from you.
Hurry now before its late 
Hes coming now hes full of hate
Surely you must not want to lose
This newly woven path you choose,
It curves and bows and loops and twists
There may never be another chance like this”

I drink it down
It fills me up 
But will I drown?
It rinses out it washes clean
But Hold me now Ive begun to bleed

By Shawnna Burt

What makes us who we are

Originally posted on eatingdisordersrecoveryblog:

It’s not the great things about ourselves that makes us who we are, it’s our failures, and how we’ve handled them.

Most people, upon knowing I almost died  from a combination of anorexia and bulimia,  and subsequently was getting help in several institutions, would say that I failed. I’ve missed three years of high school, never went to prom, never even went on a date until I was nineteen..but getting sick and going thru all that was absolutely the BEST thing that ever could have happened to me.  i was able to write a book, which I hope touches others lives.  I was able to enjoy things I had always before taken for granted.

The Meaning of 222, 2222: Your Thoughts are Correct

This happens to me all the time. Guess I’m headed in the right direction.


I often see repeating numbers, and usually when I am going through a shift or change around in life, I see them regularly, sometimes numerous times a day.  I decided to find out what these numbers mean.

When you see the repeating 222, 2222 whether these are on receipts, bills, letters, cars, or the time on a clock 22:22, or anywhere and everywhere this means that your thoughts are correct.  You may be going through a difficult time or not really know what decision to make.  The sight of repeating 2’s are confirmation you are thinking the right thing. Everything will be ok, have faith as the issue will be resolved in the best way. It is also a sign of manifestation, so ensure your thoughts are positive and of what you want in your life.

As with all signals from our angels or guides acknowledge what you have seen…

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“The Death of the Moth” — Virginia Woolf


“The Death of the Moth”


Virginia Woolf

Moths that fly by day are not properly to be called moths; they do not excite that pleasant sense of dark autumn nights and ivy-blossom which the commonest yellow-underwing asleep in the shadow of the curtain never fails to rouse in us. They are hybrid creatures, neither gay like butterflies nor sombre like their own species. Nevertheless the present specimen, with his narrow hay-coloured wings, fringed with a tassel of the same colour, seemed to be content with life. It was a pleasant morning, mid-September, mild, benignant, yet with a keener breath than that of the summer months. The plough was already scoring the field opposite the window, and where the share had been, the earth was pressed flat and gleamed with moisture. Such vigour came rolling in from the fields and the down beyond that it was difficult to keep the…

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