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This is the place of recognition.

For the bruised, and the bandaged. For the stitched, and the recovery of those who have walked through fire and chosen to carry a lantern instead of being laden with the ashes.

Here, we name what was. Not to dwell in darkness, but to acknowledge the shadows we have outgrown and outshone. These are poems of discernment. Of boundaries drawn in love. Of past ills that now show immunity.

This is not darkness. There is a candle here that glows. This is the calm after the storm has passed. This is strength remembered. This is love reclaimed.

You will not find despair here. You will find the moment when the tide turned. You will find the correct words before the curtain fell. And you will remember who you are.

Welcome to the Healing Corner. Where we honour our lives, and celebrate our existence.

✨️🌸❤️✨️🌸❤️✨️🌸❤️✨️🌸❤️✨️🌸❤️✨️🌸❤️✨️🌸❤️✨️🌸❤️✨️🌸❤️

Below is a Remembrance poem from my heart to yours. These words are for everyone and anyone willing to absorb the emotion and feelings into their heart.

For those who were so brave, and to whom we owe so much. You will never be forgotten

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Never Forgotten, Forever In Our Hearts.

When autumn strips the branches bare, We gather in the cold November air, A bugle sounds across the square, Silence falls as we dwell in prayer,

Names are cut in village stone, For those who did not die alone, Others left without a trace, No memories and no resting place.

From a letter, cold decree, "You must go forth across the sea," He left his shop, he left his plough, His mother kissed his trembling brow.

From Highland glen to Cornish shore, They left as thousands left before, A ticket, shilling, cap in hand, Still a boy, but called a man.

We wear the poppy ruby red, For all the blood that once was shed, For every name cut into stone, Wives and mothers left alone.

A coat still hangs on the banister, On Christmas Day his chair was bare, The boots remain behind the door, For the feet that will not tread no more.

For all the many that returned, Behind the smile, their spirit burned, With shaking legs and trembling hands, They could no longer work upon the land.

They would sit alone in market square, Still hearing guns that haunt the air, Many don't speak, others cry and yell, Those broken men returned from hell.

We also think of those with no known grave, To mark their life and the bravery they gave, Those who had so much life to give, No plot is labelled where they now live.

No wall to hold them, no cross to see, No village bell to set them free, A file misplaced, a name mislaid, No hand to carve the price they paid.

For those who lie beneath the sea, We hold them close like family, For in our hearts is where they'll be, And with our silence we set them free.

We bring them home to Cornish ground, Where others' names still make a sound, To stand with brothers side by side, With those whose names were carved with pride.

So let this silence unite them all as one, The lost, the known, beneath the sun, For they will never be alone, For in our hearts they have a home.

Elouisea Jayne Stone.

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Above is a poem I wrote last night (16/10/26) I am glad that it is finally over, and now I can close the chapter on that part of my life. The poem has no title, just a 💔 says it all. However, the heart that holds the poem has a silver lining. A new dawn, a new day, I am no longer tied to a person, a marriage, or the past.

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸 Elouisea Jayne Stone 🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

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I Still Believe

Tired like a tumbled stone
Bearing its own weight alone
Fractured in places
Seeing strangers with faces
Wearing shoulders that know the shape of the day,
With a brain that has memorized the part it must play.
I am so far from being unbreakable.

The chips and cracks
Are my reshapable hacks
I am but one
Of what I've become
Not strong
Not weak
Not aggressive
Not meek
I am me
Just what you see

No label
No tag
Of what's in the bag
I change my mind
I alter my view
It's my divine right
And it's what I do

I love and I feel
Bear heartache I heal
I watch and I learn
Make mistakes then I burn
As the lines cross and meet
The circle repeats
The struggle and strife
Is just the spiral of life
The ups and the downs
Of the tears and the frowns
Raining heavy from above
Outweighed by joy and true love.

Elouisea Jayne Stone

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Harvest Moon Release

Last night I stood beneath the moon
Holding the love I cherished
The opening of the cage was not a moment too soon
For the love had already perished.

The grief I felt,
The pain inside,
Was dissolved within myself.
This moment was more ceremony
For Ellie the Pixie Elf.

The black wire cage was all that was left
Of the history we share.
I opened the door
And the butterflies flew
Into the moon's harvest glare.

No more sorrow,
No more strife,
To keep the dream alive.
Floating on the autumn breeze,
The butterflies will thrive.

I take my steps through life as me,
No longer yearning for that one.
If love comes to join me on my path,
Then we will see what will become.

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Independence Day, Reclaimed 💕


Before the fireworks, there was silence. Not the peaceful kind, the kind they taught you to keep, when your voice was a room you weren’t allowed to enter. They called it love. I called it shrinking. Every “you’re too sensitive” was a brick. Every “that never happened” was a lock. I lived in a house of mirrors they built, and every reflection was their version of me. Gaslight flickers. It doesn’t burn out, it makes you question the sun. So I forgot what daylight felt like on my skin. I asked permission to be happy. I apologized for taking up space in my own life. But there was magic in the breakage of this stone. Something wonderful took root in the cracks. Today is July 4th. The sky will shout in red and white and gold, but my independence started quieter: a coffee I ordered without checking first. A plan I made and didn’t explain.	Saying “no” and letting the air hold it, not rushing to fill the space with sorry. Independence is not a flag. It’s waking up and the day is yours. No one votes on your style, smile. No one edits your thoughts before you think them. It’s walking into a room and not scanning for permission. Living is now, because you're done waiting. They said I couldn’t survive without them. Look, I’m the one holding the matches now. I’m the one who decides what burns and what gets to light up the sky. I used to be a story they told. Now I’m the author, the ink, the page. The plot? I choose me. Every chapter, every line break, every period. So let the rockets scream. I have my own kind of loud now: The sound of my front door locking from the inside. By my hand. On my terms. Happy Independence Day, to the me I got back. To the me they never got to keep.

Before the fireworks, there was silence.
Not the peaceful kind,
the kind they taught you to keep,
when your voice was a room you weren’t allowed to enter.

They called it love.
I called it shrinking.
Every “you’re too sensitive” was a brick.
Every “that never happened” was a lock.
I lived in a house of mirrors they built,
and every reflection was their version of me.

Gaslight flickers. It doesn’t burn out,
it makes you question the sun.
So I forgot what daylight felt like on my skin.
I asked permission to be happy.
I apologized for taking up space in my own life.

But there was magic in the breakage of this stone.
Something wonderful took root in the cracks.

Today is July 4th.
The sky will shout in red and white and gold,
but my independence started quieter:
a coffee I ordered without checking first.
A plan I made and didn’t explain.

Saying “no” and letting the air hold it,
not rushing to fill the space with sorry.

Independence is not a flag.
It’s waking up and the day is yours.
No one votes on your style, smile.
No one edits your thoughts before you think them.
It’s walking into a room and not scanning for permission.
Living is now, because you're done waiting.

They said I couldn’t survive without them.
Look,
I’m the one holding the matches now.
I’m the one who decides what burns
and what gets to light up the sky.

I used to be a story they told.
Now I’m the author, the ink, the page.
The plot?
I choose me.
Every chapter, every line break, every period.

So let the rockets scream.
I have my own kind of loud now:
The sound of my front door locking
from the inside.
By my hand.
On my terms.

Happy Independence Day,
to the me I got back.
To the me they never got to keep.

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Rotten Wood


Don’t play the fool with me, because you will lose face, no time like the present to make you step up pace. You can’t keep up, then fall behind — I will not stop in time. Done all the waiting I am gonna do, now I’ll away take what’s mine. You can’t carve rotten wood, I don’t know why I ever thought I could. War ends nothing, so I’m not gonna fight, I am leaving, just taking flight. The honey is sweet but the bee has a sting, say goodbye to the sweetest thing. What breaks in a moment may take years to mend. No sin is hidden from the soul, and you just lost a friend.	Sometimes it’s too little too late — the horse has bolted, so leave the gate. Standing there with your head sunk low, you did this — don’t say you didn’t know. Spare your breath to cool your porridge, ‘cus I don’t wanna hear. A closed mouth catches no flies, don’t bother to fake a tear. From small acorns great oaks rise, it won’t take long to grow, and when I’m up there looking down, I’ll remember what I know.

Don’t play the fool with me,
because you will lose face,
no time like the present
to make you step up pace.
You can’t keep up, then fall behind —
I will not stop in time.
Done all the waiting I am gonna do,
now I’ll away take what’s mine.

You can’t carve rotten wood,
I don’t know why I ever thought I could.
War ends nothing, so I’m not gonna fight,
I am leaving, just taking flight.
The honey is sweet but the bee has a sting,
say goodbye to the sweetest thing.

What breaks in a moment
may take years to mend.
No sin is hidden from the soul,
and you just lost a friend.

Sometimes it’s too little too late —
the horse has bolted, so leave the gate.
Standing there with your head sunk low,
you did this — don’t say you didn’t know.

Spare your breath to cool your porridge,
‘cus I don’t wanna hear.
A closed mouth catches no flies,
don’t bother to fake a tear.
From small acorns great oaks rise,
it won’t take long to grow,
and when I’m up there looking down,
I’ll remember what I know.