And so it begins…

As of this afternoon, I am an officially published author. Currently, I’m not entirely sure how to feel about this new development. I mean, I’m happy because I’ve wanted to write and get published since I was a child but I’m also terrified at the same time.

I had been pushing off the release date for a while now because the thought of finishing my book caused me anxiety. Butterflies had been (and they’re still at it as I write this post) assaulting my innards for the last several hours but I knew I had to do it. So, I ripped off the band aid and submitted the book. It is now available on Amazon in eBook format and paperback (feel free to head over and purchase a copy of my book if you’re interested).


A Journey (Still in Progress) is a poetry book that details my experiences of surviving life with severe depression that had-until recently-been completely untreated (and it was—and is a very bad idea to let it go as far as I had). I didn’t write for over two years when it’s something that I love and feel passion for.

I’m going to just take a quick moment to say that if you are dealing with a mental illness, please keep it in check. It doesn’t make you crazy just because you can’t feel happy all of the time or because your brain doesn’t produce chemicals you need. It had affected every single aspect of my life and I almost lost that uphill battle. Please take care of yourselves because you do matter. I just wanted to mention that in the event that anyone needed to be reminded.

What I’m working on

“Love you babe,” Katriona hid the automatic flinch when he bent down and cooed at her growing belly. “And you too, little man.”

She swallowed and gave him a smile, ignoring the pounding in her ears and the adrenaline that was coursing through her veins, “We love you too.”

Just a little snippet of what I’m writing at the moment.

A Journey (still in progress) is complete and ready for publication, but I think I’m afraid to submit it. That’s probably why I’ve held off on getting it out there. Maybe after a few more days I’ll feel more comfortable, but we’ll see.

This is not love

Wait, what?
The elevated pitch of his voice rings out like a gunshot in the quiet
Overheard, the word is barely muffled
How is this love?
Harsh words strewn around by a boy playing a game of pretend,
Failing miserably at being a man
He’s as convincing as a spider
Spinning his web of deceit
Preparing to devour you whole…
But what’s there left to swallow?
Already knee deep,
there is no amount of soap that will scrub away the foul shit that he has buried you in

What makes you believe you deserve this fate?
Thud. The wall shudders from the force of his anger.
I hope it’s just doors and not you forcibly meeting the wall.
How is it love?
You are forced to cover freshly bruised flesh—the purple still idles
His words linger
imprinted onto your very essence
You sag under the weight of his reality
Dignity need not apply
A ghost of a smile is all that remains
Just the shell of a bright young woman who had countless possibilities
They’re gone now.

-Dominica Bolden