Adena M'lynn's Voice

I was inspired by Credence Clear Water’s “Have You Ever Seen the Rain” “Rain On A Sunny Day” Written by Adena M’lynn I sat with the song one morning— sunlight spilling across my skin, coffee cooling beside me, and that voice—raw, steady— asking,  “Have you ever seen the rain?” I closed my eyes, and felt it— that quiet ache that hides beneath the bright. The kind of sorrow that wears a smile so no one sees it breaking. Success looks a lot like sunshine— gold, blinding, a warmth that everyone assumes feels good. But what they don’t know is how heavy light can be when your heart’s still drenched from the last storm. I asked the song to tell me who I was. It didn’t answer— it just played back my silence. The rain became memory, the sun became mask, and the space between them— that’s where my truth lives. I’ve been that band before— standing center stage, applause so loud it drowned the warning thunder, smiling while something sacred was slipping through the cracks. And maybe that’...

There’s a pill for that— tiny, chalk-white, a promise pressed into her palm. She eats her hallucinations whole, swallowing shadows until her throat tastes like ghosts. She’s tired. Bone-tired. Tired of the static buzzing in the corners of her mind, tired of her name echoing back at her like a warning. She’s tried everything— kindness, (well, sort of), tight smiles and tighter lips, praising instead of pleading, restraining her hunger until her ribs rattle like a cage. Restricting her wants, minimizing her desires, folding herself smaller and smaller like a prescription slip she can’t afford to fill. And still, the noise comes back. The ache returns. The smell hits her first when the bottle cracks open— a sharp, chemical sting that clings to her fingertips. Then the taste— coating her tongue, like souring guts turning inside her, a bitterness that even water can’t drown. The pills line up wheat fields on her nightstand, each one promising a softer silence that never lasts. She wonders i...

Inspired by life events.  B y Adena M’lynn What’s the difference between healing and controlling the pain? See— one looks like breathing, the other looks like holding your breath until your face turns blue. One says: Let the wound bleed, let the scar form, let the body remember what it survived. The other says: Cover it quick, hide the blood, swallow the hurt with another pill, another prayer, another promise. Pain wrapped in panaceas, wrapped in bandages too tight, wrapped in silence that chokes more than it comforts. Healing whispers, This hurts now, but it will not hurt forever. Control shouts, This must not hurt, not now, not ever. Healing is messy. It stains sheets, ruins dinners, makes you cry in parking lots. Control is polished. It smiles in photographs, pastes on affirmations, clenches fists under tables. And me? I’ve tried both. I’ve drowned the ache in pill bottles, stuffed it down with lies, called the covering  strength when really it was surrender. I’ve also ripp...

When “hope” cries… When “dreams” sleep… When “breathing” gasps… That’s when the silence becomes louder than thunder, when the heart carries bricks instead of blood, when faith feels like a rumor whispered in a language I used to know. Hope—she bends at the knees, her voice trembling like a child asking if love is real this time. Her tears don’t fall to the ground— they suspend in the air, reminding us that even the strongest light can flicker. Dreams—once wild stallions running through midnight fields, are now curled in corners, restless, tossing in sleep that feels like chains. They whisper in half-finished sentences, “Don’t forget us… don’t bury us alive beneath calendars and scars.” Breath—oh breath— the most ancient prayer, now struggles through lungs like a beggar at a locked door. It gasps, it clutches at the edges of existence, and in that desperate rhythm, I hear the truth, to be alive is to wrestle between suffocation and song. So when hope cries, I will hold her. When dreams ...