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First Kiss Inside my soul there’s a childish moon, That dances with ballerina’s and sleeps ‘til noon. Clothes become a costume in disguise, Ripped by crippled hands. Innocence is kissed goodbye. A whisper speaks inside my sleep, and nightmares walk across my bedroom’s face. The doors are locked and I’ve forgotten, Why I am living. A first kiss clings to my neck. tmsh .... finsihed 6/4/00 7:56 p.m  Almost It’s like you to kick the sand across the beach Drink autumn wine on a summer’s day And then forget about me It’s like you to pick up the phone When you’re alone ‘cause you’re thinking about me It’s like you… almost. It’s like you to yell and scream at idiosyncrasies Smoke a joint on the bridge and eat potato chips It’s like you to write my name When you’re alone ‘cause you’re thinking about me It’s like you … almost I tilt my head back and have a good laugh Think, “what a joke, what an ass of a man” I think that I hate you, while I think that I love you And I think it’s over again It’s almost over again. It’s like you to kick and scream while you claim to believe In the widows and weak little losers You toss and turn for the souls that you burn But you never find freedom in unconditional turns You know piano keys and guitar strings Mozart, Rio and far away kings But I wonder, did you ever know me? You turn your head to the rainbow streets You whisper a rambling tune You know the church and the river And you prey among the birds with The Christ who knows you. You think of mother and cry for brother, And leave your heart for me You’re leaving your heart for me. But, I don’t want it. Forget the meditation and take the medication What’s it mean to you It’s like you said, “Better than the alternative” And it’s almost over again And it’s like you to think about me When you’re alone again. Almost. Written by theresa smith halfacre, February 14, 2002, 1:39 a.m. ;void(0)) On This Day On this day my father walked me down the isle On this day I kissed my mother then stood by your side We held hands, we made promises, and then we bowed heads And we prayed for each other And our life ahead On this day there were ballads dancing in the air On this day we were dreamers without a cross to bear We kissed like young lovers and you looked at me And you swore that forever Was all you’d ever need Chorus We don’t even realize Years pass by and people die And our tears they flow And we laugh, And we cry, Sometimes we think we’re through But on this day as the sun sets, I’m still in love with you. On this day, the flowers never smelled so sweet On this day in my white chiffon I walk towards a dream There were gifts, there were sentiments, but none rang so true As this love in a Carolina – July afternoon On this day, there was something old And there was something new There was something borrowed and something lost And something blue And my heart, it belonged beating by your side And our dreams, they were unassuming and we ourselves assured Still this love endures. We watch our world around us At times bewildering And then we hold hands And we walk down the city streets There we are just like then With ballads in the air Underneath the magnolia trees, we’re quite a pair You and me … on this day Forever and always That’s how we’ll always stay. Written by theresa smith halfacre, June 11, 2004, 2:04 a.m. I heard this beautiful song on Larry King as they paid tribute to Nancy Reagan. The song was lovely – In This Room – possibly the title song. Anyway, it gave me these thoughts. Intermingled Azure skies, The forest of green begins to rust. Life once lush is at the afternoon twilight. The season is that of the smiling elderly. Proud weeds with long stalks Stand in their final rebellion to the end of their season, The long, narrow brown pillars are the marble of the past flowers, Refusing to bend to the winds of change, not seeing they have already. (Above written by Quinn Haas) Forgiveness scorches the ground (Below written by Theresa Smith Halfacre) while foliage tries to resuscitate a forgotten summer. Morning waits to birth snowflakes as the slain museum crumbles alongside neighboring wildlife. Splashes of color soak in elegant wonders, As the foundation prepares to embrace another season. Too soon it shall retire into an ancient auburn midnight, never to see vibrant colors blush in young mornings, or welcome angels to their home overtop the mountains. Written by Quinn Haas and Theresa Smith Halfacre, October 13, 1999 Aftermath You’re wandering through a dream Of unconcern and low self esteem Feeling restless and insecure How much more can you endure? You’re in the aftermath. It’s a pity you follow monopolies In a world full of hypocrisy Underprivileged and undignified What’s the consequence of your lie? You’re in the aftermath. Chorus Aftermath is just after effects One high, one low, one reject Crawl, breathe, fight, win it or lose Walk, choke, wince, whine then you bruise You’re in the aftermath You’re wandering through a hall Confrontations battle you’re indigent calls You feel tempted and ill advised Tossed in the wickedness and the devised Plan of the Aftermath Peace is not what it seems Joy is less than we deem Choose your path and travel well Walk the road to heaven or hell You choose your aftermath Written by theresa marie smith halfacre, August 3, 2004 2:34 a.m. This Afternoon The rain slipped away by afternoon To let the sun shine in the image of the moon And for a moment my life was Suspended in a simple remedy Of a white dogwood and copper kettle waterfalls A swing built for three, settled for two And cuddled a chilly spring day with a rose colored view I was calm in the moment. I wasn’t afraid to breathe, Or laugh. Or live. Written by tsmh, April 15, 2005, 1:53 a.m. Another Holiday “It’s just another holiday,” she told me As she walked away I was in kind of daze, Like all the world stopped dreaming What is it you that think of me? What is it that is left in me? She is whom I love in life Never mine to be my wife Never to share another holiday Nor a cup of tea. I watched a riverboat at sea Wishing useless thoughts for me Collecting dreams of her pure voice Would have been my treasured choice But when she walked away today It became another holiday As Whisperers hush the time away And drink their tea alone. One things sure in fairytales They always end, it never fails And romantics have their lover’s eyes Starry and immortalized But I will captivate no more A transparent heart with stained glass doors When we share our final breath Our holiday will be our death And you’ll be mine once more you see, To share a cup of tea. Written by theresa marie halfacre, written March 1, 2004, 2:39 a.m. Hey, Stupid Girl Is it real, what I conceal? I go through my routine. Night and day, it’s all the same, And I slowly fade away. In the wings of a grave, Blackness covers up my face. In the dawn, Am I wrong? How I tried to find the way. Hey Stupid Girl, look out and you’ll see Each breath’s a fight, nothing’s right. Every dream remains deranged. What’s the joke, do you smoke? Take a drink and slit the pain. All will end, all will write That your future ends tonight. Hey, Stupid Girl, what’s your mirror say? You’re a fool, f*cking fool, But there is comfort in your pain. All your guts, all the cuts, Oh, there must be something left. Can it be that I am me, And I really do not know? Hey, Stupid Girl, tell me why you die? Have you lived, can’t you give, Don’t you know that lovers cry? Trade it in, it’s a sin, And the wickedness reveals. Is it stone, are you alone? Does the salt sting through your veins? Hey, Stupid Girl, call me anytime. Read me songs, sing me books, Take the best and make it look Like the worst in which you hide. Hey, Stupid Girl, you do not know pain. It’s the blood from above, That’s the only pain of love. Will you learn, will you leave? Will you ever just agree? Hey, Stupid Girl, you’re a stupid girl, But that’s okay, I know the shame And I’m walking in your shoes. Hey, Stupid Girl, one day it will end. Not today, not tonight, but perhaps one stupid day. February 24th, 2001 12:48 a.m. Thirty three dead from a bullet in the head Not a single shot left for me Lying on the ground Not making a sound Just moving reflexively One boy, one woman, 31 men Killed by one hand in combat I guess we all need an excuse For everything in life that we do Oh, he never even said it made him sad A kindred spirit; I don’t understand So now I’m thinking out of the box Wishing I could join them Thinking outside of the box With the 33 dead, shot in the head I want to think in the box with them. Shoot me in the head and leave me for dead Cause’ this combat’s killing me There’s a doorway and an edge of a razor blade There’s a hallway and voice that’s following me Box me up and burn me in the ground It’s the only way I’ll ever sleep sound Sleeping and thinking outside the box It hurts… it hurts a lot. I scrape away a little skin Nothing but the mood I’m in The mood will go away Just like the 33 that died that day. Combat kills but we do too It’s all in the path we choose What do we sacrifice? Are you losing any sleep tonight? Trigger this and trigger that What the hell, who gives a crap? We're killing in the name of combat. And you got me thinking outside of the box. Oh, I'd rather be thinking inside that box. Written by theresa smith halfacre, May 31, 1:12 a.m. 
Loons on the Lake When my nights are paralyzing and I can no longer sleep, I walk into my childhood and visit the loons on the lake. I remember so clearly, their language of love. Their voice was enchanting; their colors brilliant with black in the blue morning mist on Lake Michigan. They swallowed my loneliness and called me by name; they glided like sailboats in the whispering rain. They made love with the water and their wilderness song. In an instant their music was as warm as sand on the beach. They cling to my memories that sleep in my dreams. As the loons of Lake Michigan live in my mind, I walk into my childhood to a cabin, safe and far, far away from a Chicago Boulevard, and stand on the front porch with Aunt Jo and Uncle Jack. Clearly I hear them say, “Look Trese, the Loons knew you were coming!” I loved these moments and treasure them still. And I know the loons are still near – like a favorite sketch from a favorite artist – they wait for me to turn the page. And I do...when the night is paralyzing and I can no longer sleep I walk into my childhood and visit the loons on the lake. The night is not as frightening and he is nowhere near. All I had to do was visit my cottage home, where laughter sang from a cabin and loons glided on whispering lakes, and all the world was peaceful through young green eyes. It’s time to try and sleep now. I go with sweet dreams to another life that remembers my true name and calls out to meet me once again. I watch and listen in awe of the loons. I love my aunt and uncle and, and their cabin of dreams … and all my thoughts are “nifty.” Written by theresa smith halfacre, may 7, 1999, 1:56 a.m. My Backyard Softer than the night In a sweet December darkness Come flurries of winter white Mixed within the starkness of Carolina’s simplicity And everything is still And all the birds are silent In the wonderland of my backyard. Falling and falling, like sweetness Calling from heaven I make snow angels as icecyles dangle From my cellar door They are beautiful and crystal clear Just like the God who brought them here And I’m surprised by the blessings In the wonderland of my backyard. Hours earlier I was uninspired Overworked and over tired God wasn’t in my thoughts As I complained my day away And let the moments slip away Like a fair weathered friend I’m back again To thank Him for blessings In the wonderland of my backyard. Written by theresa smith halfacre, March 10, 2004, 1:51 We’re expecting a little more snow tonight … we’re having unbelievably, surprisingly, cold wintry winter. ### My Quiet Little Prayer I knelt before my father I had nowhere else to go All the world walked out ‘Cause I never let them know I never let them know That sometimes I cry Sometimes I’m scared Sometimes I fear That’s there’s little left to love I have nothing to offer, Nothing to give But on this night, this very Night tonight My quiet little prayer. I got down on my knees I couldn’t say a word Every teardrop falling Touched another hurt All I did was weep I couldn’t keep silent … anymore Sometimes I hurt Sometimes I don’t care Sometimes I feel the dirt In the very skin I wear I try not to cry I try not to care But tonight I’m broken. I stayed quiet all night long I couldn’t break the silence I knew that I belonged… in among His presence, among his glance He covered me with comfort He covered me with love He cradled me in the peace I couldn’t find alone But right there in this night This very night tonight The sadness slipped away In my quiet little prayer All I had to do was to feel Like no one really cared And when I dropped down on my knees He was already there He knew I couldn’t bear Life without my quiet little prayer. Written by theresa smith halfacre, March 11, 2004, 2:06 a.m. | Return Home | Theresa | MY BOOK! | Land of Monuments | Writings in the Rain | Audio Clips | The Unnofficial Half | More Writings in the Rain | Contact Us | Links | |
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