Lace Fishnets: A book of poems from one evolving young woman to another
  • Reads 143
  • Votes 4
  • Parts 17
  • Time 16m
  • Reads 143
  • Votes 4
  • Parts 17
  • Time 16m
Ongoing, First published Dec 24, 2017
So what is Lace Fishnets about and what even gave me the want to finally... After over 10 years of being a poet... want to write a poetry book? I could give you a really witty answer that sounds "good"... But that wouldn't be realistic. To start with... I'm a young 20 something who has been through all kinds of things and it would be truly selfish not to share it with you ladies. How I felt when it happened, and the lessons I chose to learn from it. Being a writer is a blessing because you can truly express yourself through words. 

This is for the young woman who feels left out 

The young woman who doesn't feel good enough

The young woman who has been betrayed

The one who has been cheated on 

The one who has been talked about 

The one who has been lied to 

lied on 
manipulated 
abused 
broken 
forgotten 
left for dead 
confused 
tainted 
tried 


And all things us young women go through that we don't talk about. I hope after reading this book of poetry and REAL short stories... You feel a bit more refreshed. Refreshed knowing you are not alone when it comes to pain, and never will be alone. Sometimes we don't need advice or even help... Sometimes we just need a "Wow... me too!" I was broken too, lied to too, hurt too... I was abused too! It's the me too's that causes us to know someone went through the same thing we did and turned out okay. 

Meaning behind the title: 
"Lace fishnets" to me are feminine. Something a lady wears when she wants to feel "grown"... "pretty." there's something beautiful about a young woman coming into her true inner GROWN woman. Through all the pain, brokeness, and lies... We are STILL women. Turn the pages... and my prayer is you become inspired. 

Prayer: Father God... Even while I'm sitting here still broken I pray you can still use me. God let it be all of you, and none of me. God allow me to even inspire myself to love more. Allow me to heal as I write this. I plead the blood of Jesus over this venture...
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π™²πš‘πšŠπš—πšπšŽ 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝘚𝘱𝘳π˜ͺ𝘡π˜ͺ α΅’αΆ  𝔏𝔬𝔳𝔒 ʰᡉᡉʰᡒᡒⁿ    αž”αŸ’αžŠαžΌαžšαžœαž·αž‰αŸ’αž‰αžΆαžŽαž…αžΆαž”αŸ‹αžŸαŸ’αž“αŸ‚αž αŸ by sunsun_bl
34 parts Ongoing
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140 parts Complete
𝕋𝕙𝕖 π•‘π• π•–π•žπ•€ 𝕒𝕣𝕖 𝕣𝕒𝕨, π•™π• π•Ÿπ•–π•€π•₯, π•’π•Ÿπ•• π•¦π•Ÿπ•’π•‘π• π•π• π•˜π•–π•₯π•šπ•”, 𝕔𝕒𝕑π•₯π•¦π•£π•šπ•Ÿπ•˜ π•₯𝕙𝕖 π•–π•€π•€π•–π•Ÿπ•”π•– 𝕠𝕗 𝕨𝕙𝕒π•₯ π•šπ•₯ 𝕗𝕖𝕖𝕝𝕀 π•π•šπ•œπ•– π•₯𝕠 π•π•šπ•§π•– π•¨π•šπ•₯𝕙 π••π•–π•‘π•£π•–π•€π•€π•šπ• π•Ÿ. π•₯𝕙𝕖 π••π•’π•£π•œπ•Ÿπ•–π•€π•€ 𝕠𝕗 π•₯𝕙𝕖 π•žπ•šπ•Ÿπ••,π•€π•’π••π•Ÿπ•–π•€π•€ π•’π•Ÿπ•• π•₯𝕙𝕖 𝕀π•₯π•£π•¦π•˜π•˜π•π•– π•₯𝕠 π•—π•šπ•Ÿπ•• 𝕙𝕠𝕑𝕖 π•šπ•Ÿ π•₯𝕙𝕖 π•žπ•šπ••π•€π•₯ 𝕠𝕗 π••π•–π•€π•‘π•’π•šπ•£. π•‹π•™π•£π• π•¦π•˜π•™ 𝕨𝕠𝕣𝕕𝕀 π•ͺ𝕠𝕦 π•¨π•šπ•π• 𝕗𝕖𝕖𝕝 π•₯𝕙𝕖 π•¨π•–π•šπ•˜π•™π•₯ 𝕠𝕗 π••π•–π•‘π•£π•–π•€π•€π•šπ• π•Ÿ, 𝕒𝕀 π•šπ•₯ π•₯π•’π•œπ•–π•€ 𝕙𝕠𝕝𝕕 π•’π•Ÿπ•• 𝕣𝕖𝕗𝕦𝕀𝕖𝕀 π•₯𝕠 𝕝𝕖π•₯ π•˜π• . 𝔹𝕦π•₯ π•–π•§π•–π•Ÿ π•’π•žπ•šπ••π•€π•₯ π•₯𝕙𝕖 π••π•’π•£π•œπ•Ÿπ•–π•€π•€, π•₯𝕙𝕖𝕣𝕖 𝕒𝕣𝕖 π•žπ• π•žπ•–π•Ÿπ•₯𝕀 𝕠𝕗 𝕓𝕖𝕒𝕦π•₯π•ͺ π•’π•Ÿπ•• π•π•šπ•˜π•™π•₯ π•‹π•™π•šπ•€ π•šπ•€ 𝕒 π•“π• π• π•œ π•₯𝕙𝕒π•₯ π•¨π•šπ•π• π•£π•–π•€π• π•Ÿπ•’π•₯𝕖 π•¨π•šπ•₯𝕙 π•’π•Ÿπ•ͺπ• π•Ÿπ•– 𝕨𝕙𝕠 𝕙𝕒𝕀 𝕖𝕧𝕖𝕣 𝕀π•₯π•£π•¦π•˜π•˜π•π•–π•• π•¨π•šπ•₯𝕙 π••π•–π•‘π•£π•–π•€π•€π•šπ• π•Ÿ. 𝕀π•₯ π•šπ•€ 𝕒 π•£π•–π•žπ•šπ•Ÿπ••π•–π•£ π•₯𝕙𝕒π•₯ 𝕨𝕖 𝕒𝕣𝕖 π•Ÿπ• π•₯ π•’π•π• π•Ÿπ•– π•šπ•Ÿ 𝕠𝕦𝕣 π•‘π•’π•šπ•Ÿ π•’π•Ÿπ•• π•₯𝕙𝕒π•₯ π•₯𝕙𝕖𝕣𝕖 π•šπ•€ 𝕒𝕝𝕨𝕒π•ͺ𝕀 𝕙𝕠𝕑𝕖 𝕗𝕠𝕣 π•₯π• π•žπ• π•£π•£π• π•¨.
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𝐦𝐞π₯𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐑𝐨π₯𝐲 βž™ 𝘱𝘰𝘦𝘡𝘳𝘺

92 parts Ongoing

MELANCHOLY | Melancholy drips from my fingertips. SOON TO BE A PUBLISHED PAPERBACK. COMING 2025! This melancholy drips from my fingertips so slowly, you begin to forget I even exist. All of me, the hard parts of flesh you could never seem to love, drips down the drain. I am waiting for the day for your fingers to unscrew the pipes, dig through debris and mess, scrape your heart against the rust, just to find me, so we can go through it all over again. Here, in the pages I find myself, in the ink that writes against my flesh, I will whisper the sadness, the heartache, and the decaying for all of the unspoken. Perhaps under this layer of melancholy, the girl I once knew still exists. ο ½ ο ½ ο ½ First poetry collection in the series. Original poems based off real life experiences. #12 in poetry. Cover template made by @KaleidoGraphix on Canva. π‘΄π’†π’π’‚π’π’„π’‰π’π’π’š copyright Β© May Garner. 2017. All Rights Reserved.