One novel to write the wrongs
Of a society that says I don’t belong
Where a woman neither mother nor wife
Is looked down on for living an unfulfilled life,
Berated and branded a broken soul
In need of someone’s other half to make her whole

One novel to break the contract
Of a creator’s falsely progressive act
Representation dangled in a cruel game
To be yanked away, pawned for money and fame
The rallying cry of my lived reality
Silenced by the masses’ romantic mentality

One novel as an act of resistance
Of lust and romance as the root of existence
A story to leave the stereotypes upended
A forgotten identity lovingly represented
Born from the ashes of what might’ve been
That the marginalized may rise again

One novel before the year is out
One novel, and this my vow
To defend a group cast out and betrayed
To keep to my goal and never stray
Weaving a narrative authentically told
My voice never packaged and sold

At the stroke of midnight
I promise, this year to do right
I will commit to discipline 
Remember, sugar is a sin

This year I will lose 15 pounds
I’ll pass on the second round
Spend more time with family and friends
Will you get another day after this one ends?

I will budget better 
No, I don’t need a new sweater
I will sing, dance, and laugh,
Until I get a charley horse in my calf

Taking the optimism route
No self-doubt 
Try something new
Make a dollar or two

Sell my pasta salad
Hopefully, it’s a hit on somebody’s palate
I may even go to church
Getting up early on Sunday won’t hurt

This year, I’m all about improving and growth
And on that note, 
Wishing you all success in every goal
And happiness to your soul

My goals in 2025 include healing and allowing myself to move forward. Here is my poem of hope.

Can you take an axe
A pick or a maul
And hollow a space in the stone the width and breadth of two
And I will use the hand plane and the lumber and I will use bolts and braces
To fashion a door for the hollow
Latch it
Strongly.
Once we are both inside,
And the world is fully outside
We will cry the racking sobs that have nowhere else to go
Held back fourteen years and some
Odd months or so
When we emerge
You will be iron and I will be alloy
And the sun will warm us
And can you
If you are able
Undo the lashings holding this pack
It is heavily filled and spills over
With sorrow and regret
Causing me to stoop
Can you if not such an imposition
If you have the strength
Help me drop it in the river
Then
We will build a table of oak and maple
And we will set it with all good things
And eat our fill of it
Til joy happiness mirth and innocence
Are the only things we can hear ringing in the forest

Another year is knocking,
But I am not ready to answer.
Don’t they know rebirth doesn’t happen in winter?

I am still unbecoming.
I am still busy undoing.
My bones are still tired.
I don’t feel like pursuing.

I will leave the Christmas tree up.
I will continue to rest.
I had to learn this the hard way:
There’s no use trying to be best.

I do not plan to start anew.
I do not wish to have a goal.
I will not write out things to do,
Or make a vision board of it all.

I have done enough.
I saved more than money.
I saved my life a few times
And still haven’t tasted honey.

It is not me who needs to be sweeter.

I do not need to be better.
It is the years who need to be better to me.