Who are you?
Krista has just burst onto the poetry scene and is anticipating her first publication in the upcoming, “Dandelion In a Vase of Roses” anthology, by world renowned poet & editor, Michael Lee Johnson.

Country Girl

I stumbled upon some mud today, while making memories, with my new best friend.
His fondness for cold, wet dirt, just never seems to come to an end.
Squishy feelings arose in my heart, as we rolled around vicariously.
He might be small, but he is quick; he followed me, right up a tree!
Mommy’s probably gonna be mad, that we’ve made ourselves into such a mess.
What do you expect from a COUNTRY GIRL; I wouldn’t be caught in a clean dress!
Someday I’ll look back on this day, and laugh uncontrollably.
If not for times like this, how could I write poetry?


Who will cry for the girl with the broken heart?
Who will hold her together, when her world falls apart?
Who will brush and put ribbons, in her hair?
When the world around her, treats her unfair.
Who will tell her about our Savior, and his undying love?
Not to mention mercy and grace, from God, up above.
Who will protect her from abuse, rape and harm?
Especially from those, who show too much charm.
Who will answer when she silently, cries out, for help?
He said he’d kill her, if she tried to tell.
Who will lead her from darkness, INTO THE LIGHT?
After years of depression, she’s now willing to fight.
Who will help her win the battle, and use her pain as a gift?
Jesus Christ, the one who saved her, and gave her a lift!


I would like to introduce you, to my befuddled muse.
She helps release pent up emotions, by telling about the horrors of domestic abuse.
Although you cannot see her, trust me, she is there.
Appearing unexpectedly, whenever the pains far too much, to bare.
Tragedy struck my life extremely early, while still developing in the womb.
For Daddy did not want me to ever dwell, inside this abusive home.
He too had his problems, fighting demons that refused to flee.
Unfortunately the disease he fought was cast upon him, by so called, powers that be.
Drowning his sorrows in alcohol, tragically ripped our family apart.
Our poor mother suffered at his hands, before my life could even get a start.
Haunted by my earliest memories, practically every single day.
If my creator truly loved me, how come the darkness, never seems to go astray?
Gripping onto the rails attached to the staircase, I witnessed my mother’s demise.
Helplessly seeking answers, to try to keep her frail spirit alive.
Wondering still today, if Mama knows just how proud I am, of her.
For she gathered up beastly strength, and kicked him straight to the cold, concrete curb .
It was the end to living in the house, with THE WHITE PICKET FENCE .
Leaving me still today, inquisitively wondering, if it will ever, make any kind of sense.
Don’t cry for me, just yet, for there’s much more of my story to tell.
For this was the beginning to saving my father’s soul, so he would not spend eternity, burning in hell.

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