The Faith of a writer

         I keep opening doors one by one, but nothing leads outside.

                     There is no destination before me, so I turn back.

            In the middle of the room, a typewriter sits on a table with sheets of paper and corrective tape.

           I sit down, clicking away hoping that if I write the correct story one of those doors will open.

                     If I use the right keywords to engage the readers, they won’t put the book down.

                That someone will open it, and it will speak to them.

                 That is what it takes to open someone’s eyes, to give them hope is to write in a way that it tugs at the soul.

It’s what all writers are reaching for.

Each one of us hopes for so that a door will open, and we won’t be stuck in the middle of the room with all the doors leading out-blocked by so many things: Doubt, writers’ block, the perception of others views of us.                              These ideas must be pitched in the trash like a manuscript you were unhappy with.

 Angela K. Crandall


Mid-Day Ramblings

Everything feels the same
No forward momentum
There is no change
But everything is changing
Even I am moving further into my life
Each step leading to aging
I am writing, serving what I feel is my purpose
Still, it is stagnant
Not, ripening like an apple
But I will rot
We all die
I attempt to live in each moment
And when I’ve risen
Someone pulls me down
Their words, thoughts actions I’m told to ignore
And when I rise above them, the hope lasts maybe a month
If I’m lucky I can brush their thoughts or views aside
Exhale and try to make things matter
This voice that screams for you to listen
And then you’re told you want attention
We all want attention, to be heard
Or would we rather
Sit back and turn on the television
Ignore the things turning around us
It’s hate, beauty, and the uniform we are forced to wear
Society’s standards are not mine
And I type on my machine
I’m in no race
Click, click, click
Words with meaning to sometimes only me
And I wonder if they glimpse at all, peak at what is underneath this skin
Of a beating heart that would bleed
For those who wish to speak
I know what it’s like to linger in the sidelines
To stop, not speaking, to not interrupt, to be polite
Because if you stumble over them, push them, or try
You have no manners
While neither will I.
Angela K. Crandall


I am the dream you’re afraid of.

The proposition you don’t want to hear.

The heart that presses against your rib cage.

The beat that won’t stop inside the music.

Pieces that weren’t meant to fit existing.

Both sides of the coin landing at once.

That each of us holds our passions with random needs


And have no use for the oppression we resist

While everything brings tears upon our cheeks releasing emotions

I’m unable to speak.


First posted on FB, content edited.

Hiding scars

I am lost, and I can’t give you anything. I’ve handed over so much of myself already. I give out hope like candy, treat others with as much dignity as possible. I’ve only lashed out when harmed, or to defend my heart. Yet still, I feel as if people walk over me, stomping on me without having to use a word. That I can be there for everyone, do the right thing at the drop of a hat, and when I turn or point it out they just walk away. Afterward, I’m the one who is playing the victim, caused the problem, created a violent act. This why I keep silent even when in pain because they would say it was bullshit; me hiding because I know your words and reaction will hurt me.
Angela K. Crandall

Questioning moments

Sometimes silence is a great peace as you listen to the wind roar, rain pour, and smell the earth. Other times the quiet is an overwhelming sense of loneliness. No one is there, nothing, and emptiness surrounds you. Two feelings invoked by the same circumstance. How do you explain that?
Angela K. Crandall


All that remains are people who want real conversations.
The depths that were once there before the age of computers.
When you could sit out the back door and neighbors would walk by and wave hello.
The sound of children running down the street as they rushed to their best friends house.
Now it’s cell phones out and heads down, its words typed on computers, not on paper sent as letters.
And while some of the technology has brought us closer together, it can tear us apart.
I’d still rather you text then call because solitude is often better than always trying to keep up with acquaintances.
Although I know who is really there, who certainly do care.
I’m grateful not a punk, but I do like Punk if you are wondering.
I miss the 80’s; 90’s and sometimes even the Beatles.
It would just be nice if once in a while people still hung out to watch films, choose conversations over coffee, and set their phones down.
Because memories are not of phones, computers or technology, but ones we make together face to face, present in those lives we cherish.
Angela K. Crandall


Iridescent dreams
Glass floors
Swimming fish
Moons shining upon ponds
Waves crashing onto shores
As I sit contemplating time
It never was a friend of mine.

Deep within

“And the beauty, she saw were in the tears they told her not to cry.

The pain that helped her withered flowers grow. When they threw her out of the garden, she found new soil.

It was richer, and she dug that ditch they wanted to throw her in.

She didn’t suffocate, no she took what the earth gave her, sucked its nutrients into her soul and rose!”
Angela K. Crandall