Too much

I tend to be “too much” for a lot of people. 

Too opinionated.

Too fascinated. 

Too infatuated. 

Too loving. 

Too forgiving. 

Too accepting. 

Too “ready for change” – constantly. 

Too free. 

Too sexual. 

Too sensitive. 

Too emotional. 

So I guess I am enveloping myself 

in my “Too muchness” 

-learning to love it’s uniqueness.


Cassie C. Redfearn


She healed my soul with threads of herself and left the longing of her beautiful lips as she pulled away the pain and replaced it with her love. 

She tucked it away into the dark corners inside of me and it lit a path to hope. 

Little did I know that when she unraveled, so would the threads in which she used to stitch my soul and the lantern she left to burn would be snuffed out. Leading me back into a darkness darker than before, void of sound unlike before and full of fearful dread. 

Story of a Life.

The story really never ends. Though the happy ending cuts the scene of your favorite movie, you’re left out on what really happens next.

Things go on, despite our knowledge. The world becomes busy. Vehicles crowd the high ways. People go to work. The side walks are crowded with feet, hurrying to their final destination. Passing the same woman five times in a week, as she holds out her hand for a few measly coins to be dropped. She is invisible. The story never really ends.

Infinite connections, boundless alterations to any story changes from moment to moment. Like the books with alternate endings, depending on the path you choose. Life may circle back and you’re to choose again.

Over and over again, making the choice. Making the statements with your voice. Once is not enough, it must be said again. Stand your ground. Don’t disappear within. Be present. The story doesn’t end. The movie stops but their life just begins.

Say we died but that pain ripples through many others. The story grew. The sorrow the heartache and the moments of good times. The story doesn’t end, it just begins to unwind. Faucets of laughter, even tears and joy. The story didn’t end. The memories were deployed.

The story really never ends.

Inspired or enthralled? I’m not sure.

Here goes that crappy first draft that they always say to jump right into. So, why writing? For me it is more about freedom of expression. It is a way to throw down all of those words that do not make sense in my mind and then re-read it all later to have that final “Ah-Ha!” moment, or in retrospect, perhaps a “Oh Damn” moment. In 2020, I have had many of those latter moments.

For me, writing began during high-school. That’s right. Those amazing early 2000’s. My journal overflowed with every thought that did and didn’t make any sense at all. Doodles from front to back, on the covers, down the spines and throughout the pages as an expression of my emotions littered the lines after most paragraphs. What I wouldn’t give to hold some of those journals again and read through my adolescent mind of self-doubt and turmoil as the adult that I am today.

Writing Prompt from Dreamer

Tuesdays Writing Prompt: Beautiful Dreamer


Her loose white cotton gown

Catches the wheat bush

As it whisks in the wind.

Her bare feet dance 

through the dry soil of the field.

Quick as the wind, her legs carry her

and her addictive laughter 

echoes through the valley.

Auburn curls catching in the wind,

Bouncing from her shoulders 

Like butterfly wings as she sings

Made up songs of joy.

She goes by Emma Ophelia

But only in my dreams.

Beautiful dreams of a baby girl

I hope to carry some day.

Some day.

Hopefully, some day.

Cassie Redfearn


That’s it

That feeling right…


It’s caught my breath in my chest.

Oh no

Now that..

That’s the knot.

I know this

This feeling

It isn’t me

No, please say

It isn’t me

It’s him isn’t it

It’s him that runs

Runs through my veins

My father

He comes out in me

I cannot control it

Deep Breath

But it hurts

My eyes

They’re moist with tears

Just let it out

If only

I just let it out

No, this isn’t me.


Please Breath







Eyes open


Now I see

Now I feel

This is what it is like to be him

I have tried to run

But you are in my veins

I cannot dispose

Only grow






Now breath

I’m me.

Only me.

Finally, I am me.

Cassie Redfearn

Letter Tuesday Writing Prompt–Today’s prompt: End a piece of prose or poetry with the phrase “I miss you”

Mom use to tell me stories
Of memories she has with you.
Many of those stories
Were toward the end of your life.
They often left me wondering
What your life must have been like
Before the cancer set in. 
Many others have told me 
what a wonderful
And beautiful soul you were.
I believe that,
Even though it leaves a lot up
To the imagination. 
Curiosity of your laughter,
Your quick witted responses, 
Or your compassion for others
Chase me around like day dreams.
What must you have been like
In your quiet moments when the world was still
And your thoughts had room to dance 
Around in your head?
I imagine you were full of lofty ideas,
Like myself. Like mom. 
Your memoirs sit on my desk.
Your words remind me of myself.
But they also remind me of my mother
And at times, my sister.
They make me feel connected
To a woman I never got to know,
Being only six months old
When it was your time to go. 
Tears come so easily
Reading the words of a woman 
full of pain at the end of her life 
with nothing left to gain.
Your last entry hits the hardest, 
written only days before your last breath. 
How incredibly powerful 
those few lines are to me
having never known your smile,
Your voice,
Your laughter,
Or your touch,
But feeling your pain with ease.
My only life line to you
Has extended across 
the barrier of life and death.
I have wanted to know you
All these years,
Like there is a piece of me missing. 
An irreplaceable love 
That I can never share with another person
Nor can I will feel in another way.
Despite only knowing you through photographs
And the way your “W” curves at the end,
There’s really only one way to express how I feel.
I miss you.
Cassie C Redfearn