 This poem is dedicated to the people in the world who thought it was their time to go. This poem is dedicated to my brothers and sisters who think the world is better off without them because the world is not. I suffer from depression and I am here. You are not alone. If you need to talk, please reach out at writersterp@gmail.com. The National Suicide Prevention Lifeline is here to help also at 1-800-273-8255.
This poem is called Whispers in the River. Written by Stephanie Evelyn I always wondered how. I always wondered why. Buried by mystery, With souls lost to cries. Mystery knocks at your door, Until it finds a way. It whispers to your thoughts, Asking if it can stay. Close your eyes, Because more sleep might be what you need. Close your eyes, Because when you sleep the whispers seem to cease. But who can visit you when you’re asleep? Born alone to be alone, Lonely rivers that run past, Love alone and see alone, It’s loneliness that is our last. The whispers remind us, That they are the only ones there. With the world moving around us, And no one seems to care. It feeds off dark corners, The ones that reside in the mind. But, we forget the wind is there, When the lonely river rushes by. We forget the same sky, We all see when we look up. Or how sorrow wraps around our necks, When our hearts feel stuck. We forget how loneliness is not alone, The whispers talk to me too. So, before you go to sleep, Tell me, what do the whispers say to you?
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 Graveyard Dance
Written by Stephanie Evelyn When the day started out It was claimed by the sun. Reflected light rolled across ocean waves, And the wind made it all dance. I danced with it, since it took my hand. Spinning like a hurricane, Laughing until going mad. Nestled in its eyes, eyes only for me. The sky could have been blue, black yellow, or not. There was no way to tell, wrapped in its arms too tight. Dancing under the sun and the moon. Spinning into nothingness, I rest my head but need to dance again soon. No one told me that it could kidnap me. Disguised as pride. Creating what seems a bigger life. A farewell party but the farewell is to me. Years ago that day started out, It was claimed by the sun. I locked myself away with it Then said farewell to everyone.  It was a red, white, and blue day and the leaves waved in the wind, mimicking those stripes and stars, mimicking anything and everything that would set it free. Blasts of light and sounds that boomed, it was all for red, white, and blue.
I looked to the sky and the stars were no longer there. They left without a word, without a single goodbye but that was okay because it wasn’t the first time I was abandoned by stardust. Dust that settles, builds up, hits your nose and makes you sneeze, then spreads away to never return. It was once love until it was lost. Lost to the wind and blown away into a red, white, and blue day. But it never mattered. Because when that day came, the air knew. It breathed it in and exhaled without forgiveness. It only brought celebration, it only brought pride. If it one day died, it would return from the dead to shoot off red, white, and blue stars of zombie pat, trying, on, this, mess. Or it could be patriotic, ness with a mess of brain and blood. Red blood, white eyes, blue dreams that are so close you can touch them, live in them, but so false that real dreams cannot break through the surface. An atmosphere of fabrication so strong, so long followed, so long nurtured. Are there thanks to be given? Always. Are there tragedies to be forgotten? To be buried? Never. If we always give thanks and always remember the tragedies, then we always revisit our blessings with grace and our shortcomings with the pretense to shine brighter the next time. If we do not do this, then we fail. Extinction will come. It always does. And when it does, what will you be remembered for? What will I be remembered for? And what will humanity be remembered for? There are far more important things than just the things we claim as our own. There are far away places that stretch off this planet with red, yellow, white, blue, and other spectrums that we cannot calculate upon simple vision. Simple. Vision. Yet, we make things complex, we complicate matters until nothing matters and we celebrate. Red,dy. Why,te. Blew, away all that we fight for or win for or die for or pray for or stay for or leave for or wish for or cry for or love for. It was that kind of day. And, I was happy and sad and hopeful and mad and at bliss and at war. This was the day of our Independence. Written by Sterp  Cuckoo Bird Blue
It started out a normal day The wind tugged at the trees. The day started out as always, Until I heard the voice call to me. I live alone in my blue house, A pantry and dim light. Puzzle pieces in every nook, Creaking stairs that say goodnight. My yellow bird whistles a tune, Every now and then. When the clock strikes twelve, it never fails Cuckoo bird sings again. Then all falls silent in my blue house The only sound is one. It's not my bird, nor the wooden stairs, That voice tells me to run. All doors are locked from the outside, There's no place for me to go. In my blue house the days are gone, With no way for me to know. One night my bird stopped whistling, That blue house I once adored. The clock strikes twelve and this time it failed, The cuckoo bird sang no more. Written by Stephanie (Sterp) Evelyn  Forever Day
A poem by Stephanie (Sterp) Evelyn It falls from the sky A soft, loud hum Delicate and violent all at once. I search for time I call to day or night, Behind locked doors, with no end in sight. What day is it? Or what should I ask instead? Abandoned by light, darkness left to befriend. Violent and delicate, together as one It falls from the sky A soft, loud hum. Time ignores me Or has she laid to rest Because day and night are no longer distinguished? Everyday is a Forever Day Too long, too short and then again At least I found a new best friend. |
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I am Sterp. I write horror fiction and have a very unhealthy obsession with disturbing narratives. I am the author of The Cult Called Freedom House: Sophia Rey Book One. My short story The Lost Tea Cup will be in Issue 26 of The Literary Hatchet in 2020. I am also a painter. HORROR PODCASTS I LOVE
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