20 Lines A Day

A Community of Writers and Photographers



Why is my heart filled with sadness?

Why do the tears fill my eyes?

I’m blessed, and so thankful

Your love and mercies consume me

But this world is full of so much sorrow

Not just in my own little space, but far beyond.

I try not to be sad when I hear of the senseless killings

And all the crimes big and small

That daily affect some that I know

And some that I’ll never know

My life goes on, filled with joys and disappointments

Laughter and tears will come and go

Like a see saw…ups and downs

I feel for others who are hurting

I want to get off the see saw, close my eyes,

And let your light illuminate my closed eyelids

But I will stay until you call my name

And say it’s time to go home.

I will not fear the madness that surrounds

I will rest in the knowledge of your love.

1 Comment

Your Stories

The days I turn wild and rageful are

the days I long to spend with you

I long to see your glorious mind

to hear your stories of lost time

the days I turn to madness are

the days that I feel shackled

to the bonfires of my bosses

to the planks of those hallways

that lead nowhere. I return.

daily I collect paper

like ants collecting the sands of the earth

on their backs

I return,

mad and burnt by the monotony

burnt by this never-ending trail

of the mad, of the stuck, of the gluttony; the dreams of others

I carry on my shoulders and

I return

spent and burnt with the agony of longing

to hear your wonderful stories.

© [Jeanette Shihadeh] and [thepainterspalate.wordpress.com], [2012]. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material, artwork, or photo’s without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to [Jeanette Shihadeh] and [thepainterspalate.wordpress.com] with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.


I am not happy but I am happy to be sad

Living a life of confusion

Where everything appears to be a mess

And weird to be precise

A flight of birds came to bring that sort of happiness

Take away the gloom squeezed in the life

But it wouldn’t happen, for it is good to be in gloom

It is good to think about it

It is good to lament the happy memories

It brings a better person out of you

Who knows what it means to be sad?

And how precious the happiness really is

How lovely it is to be in the delightful aura around you

How cruel life looks like once enters the sadness

I am not happy but I am happy to be sad.



She doesn’t seem to remember
that she was making tea
or that she’s still in her slippers
or that there was ever any pain at all.
He turns off the stove, and brings the tea,
it’s sunny on the porch, and
she is surrounded
by faces who know her name
and laud her with stories
that confuse, crack sharply
across her mind, lake, mid-freeze.
She looks at them, gaze watery,
brave, blankly innocent, then
stares into her tea
as if deciding what to do with it.


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