Stream of Consciousness

King of Trash

It’s a funny word, trash. What’s trash to one, is treasure to another. Pointless clutter to yet another. Retro decoration in someone else’s mind.

It’s an odd time, right now. Different ideals and opinions, pains and joys, opportunities and road blocks, tugging us in opposite directions, all wanting our attention and backing.

Maybe take a moment. One to yourself. Just breathe, look around. What trash is holding you back? Whether it be physical or psychological. What trash is actually treasure in your life? Something you thought could only be gross and pointless, an unneeded weight or ugly, but in actuality holds a gift in it’s hands for you. A lesson, an idea, example, hidden desire, etc.

Maybe you’re not sitting in a dumpster. Maybe you’re the King of Buried Treasure.

Shadow Poetry


shatter me

against the wall

but I’m already broken

some days

breathing is hard

and the only way

to keep the ink flowing

is by stabbing

the source until my hands are raw

i’m supposed to seem

like a porcelain doll

some days i don’t have a heart at all

by daphne shadows

Stream of Consciousness

When You Don’t Grieve A Family Member’s Death

It’s been…. a minute since you’ve seen me lurking around here.


*dramatic drum roll*

I gained weight, have more medical issues for which I’m now waiting to see new specialists because no one knows what’s wrong with me or how to help, my only YouTube microphone died (but my patrons came to my rescue and I was able to buy TWO new microphones), and then my grandma died due to covid.

Now my family and I spend every moment of our spare time cleaning up after my hoarder Nana who refused to get help going through her 2 large storage units or mold filled trailer… which we now have to pay for while we go through them on our own (with gloves, masks, and lots of alcohol wipes). And can I just say, at $100 a pop at the dump, we’re living in sticker shock land. Not to mention the growing death/funeral costs due to her also refusing to get a life insurance policy (yes, she was easily capable), which has currently put us into $8,000 of debt.

We live paycheck to paycheck.


Not to mention emotionally and physically exhausted.

And you’re probably thinking that sentence up there was a wee bit harsh. You know, the one that said, “my hoarder Nana who refused to get help”. I mean, she died. I’m supposed to be epically upset and talk about her like a perfect human being now that she died, right?

It’s been an odd time. When my grandpa died, I grieved. I even blogged about it.

But this time? I’ve been so quiet because I’m not sure how to really work this one out. Our society is so big on shaming us if we don’t allow our family members to abuse us… because they’re “family”.

You know?

That guilt trip comment like, “you should be glad/feel lucky that you still HAVE (insert abusive family member here).”

*burns with rage*

Just because you lost a family member doesn’t mean I should be HAPPY that I have that same family member if they’re ABUSIVE.

Abuse is abuse is abuse. Whether or not that person has family blood.

Anywho. Mini rant over.

Kind of.

I’m not grieving my grandmother. Which bothers me. I feel SAD that I DON’T feel sad that she’s dead.

I understand that most abusers were abused. I understand that there was a reason she was the way she was (many reasons, in reality). I understand that she gave birth to my fabulous mom. But it’s also true that she then TORMENTED my mom (and then me to a lesser extent, as I spent a painful amount of my childhood alone with her). I also understand that Nana passed down and continued the family habit cycle of abuse.

And it makes me sad.

This isn’t to bash my grandmother. In fact, this isn’t about her. It’s about me.

This is simply me being honest. Trying to pin down exactly what I feel. I don’t think we talk about this often. We act as if we’re supposed to talk about the dead like they were saints, no matter how they truly were. Unless they were like, Hitler.

So I guess this is just me dealing with it in the only healthy way I can think of: say it out loud and let it be seen. Maybe it’s the writer in me. Writing it out and bleeding myself dry of the bubbling confusion. Maybe its the only way I’ll be able to even access any positive memories of my grandmother, by getting the heavy truth off my chest in a format that’s therapeutic for me.

I want to move forward with this WITHOUT following the cycle handed down to me of focusing on the negative and holding onto my anger.

I hope if you have a family member, or someone close, who abused you, that you know it’s perfectly okay to feel EVERYTHING you feel. Maybe you do feel sad at their loss. Maybe you miss them terribly EVEN THOUGH they abused you and you’re angry with them. Perhaps you’re filled with a swirling flurry of emotions. Or numb, empty, shocky, or strangely unaffected.

I think that’s what bothers me so much. I’ve viewed her body in her coffin. I’ve said goodbye. I’m packing away or throwing out damaged mementos. And I feel…


Shadow Poetry

no vacancy

i didn’t run dry

you bled me out

like a carcass

left me propped up

no toe tag to speak of

lights on

‘open for business’ sign lit up

and lying

it’s empty

bound and covered

scrawled with lovely

bold lettering

embossed even

pages numbered

it’s empty

Daphne Shadows

Shadow Poetry

Lamp Light

when we take to the streets

no one will know our names

but they will chant our cause

and the lights will never go out

the lamps are burning

off our dead weight

the oil long gone

siphoned by the empty promises

doomed to be repeated

when all the lights go out

is it naive to believe

in happily ever after?

everyone believes

in the end

is it naive to believe

we are here for a purpose?

leaving dead skin cells

as my trail

so you can find me

when i’m lost

when i’m stuck

or is it all just void?

no point at all

i think not

when i wake

in the dead of night

searching for the reasons

i cannot find

remind me

hold me

until the gaping abyss

can no longer see me

take the truth

massage it into my skin

so i can remember

what we are fighting for

By Daphne Shadows

Shadow Poetry

depression is

depression is a liar

and a truth teller

buries heads in the sand

illuminates all the wrong

playing the villain

monsters slithering

in the shadows

making home in the hollows

paying rent in love letters

we want someone to know

but we don’t

can never tell


playing the hero

winning over the dragons

stepping into the flame

drinking it dry

sparing the hostages

the licking and the char

because we know what it means

to suffer inside a plastic box

nothing to soothe the ill

because we hurt

beneath bricks and mortar

dust and broken bones

we exist within


and oxygen masks

writing these silly plot twists

with knives in our spines

emails to our graves

everyone else is a star

brilliant in crimsion hues

our screens are ebony

the colors all filtered out

we can see you

but we can’t feel your warmth

because we hurt enough

we don’t open mouths

because to add more

is to help the vile

add to the mass graves

of tears and open sutures

because we can’t hand you

this filth

your hands are so pretty

and we’re already so dirty

by Daphne Shadows

Stream of Consciousness

sense of direction

If your heart hurts, let it.

If you’re feeling angry, listen to why.

If you’re feeling lost, search out the last thing that felt right.

If you feel alone, know you’re not.

And if you feel content or happy, don’t feel guilty. Enjoy it.

We shame ourselves for not feeling how we think we “should” feel. But that’s ridiculously unkind. This world is an insane tornado of emotions, experiences, thoughts, beliefs, changes, adaptations, lines in the sand. There’s so much to it. How could we ever expect ourselves to exist as some perfect form of ‘happy all the time’ human?