Sharla Rayne


I don’t define or confine myself to or by the ‘road posts’ strewn along the way in life…   

They are merely guides put in place and marked as help. A testament of others who have traveled that same path towards their own dreams. Who have courageously faced many diversities in pursuit of all the options this world holds. Leaving behind torn little pieces of fabric on a twig in this wooded forest called life. Knowledge. Wisdom. Lore. These are the milestones and pillars that will be left behind to be found among the ruins for the discovery of posterity.

I intend to retain that which is necessary in the forging of new paths of my own design, while leaving my own little torn pieces of fabric. I choose to pick up my crown, and wear it well. Even when I stumble. As we all will do along the way in this journey called life. For there is no perfection among man. But, there is the gift of a higher state of being in this existence. One that defies all rules, that empowers even in failure and defeat, that yields more than can be given away, that has magical, unforeseen powers that can touch and change and rescue and sustain… It is only when we give of our true selves to others, that we are worthy to receive it.

It is not about anyone “knowing” me, no, not really…But rather, it is far better to know me by the depth, direction and distance of the footprints I leave behind. By this, shall they know my path.~ Singer, Artist, Poet, Author, Songwriter, Public Speaker, Film/Television/Stage , Radio Host, Women  Advocate, Survivor!


A Fictional Version Of An Ugly Reality

This is my story.

A confession of lies kept hidden. That were not my own. Lies and chaos all rolled together in a ‘believable’ fashion. I took the verbal beatings.

Turned the other cheek.

Always turning.

Seeking the other side. (Seeing the other’s side).

Laying my own ‘self’ out bare for fair compromise, only to be compromised. Hoping for better results, not learning fast enough that there are those who will push, drag or throw you under the bus every chance they get in order to rise above another or protect their hides. Eve Family. I wasn’t cut from that cloth. A finer material in fact. Not silken and refined,but of worth and value. Sturdy. Long lasting… and classic in design. But not everyone has eyes to see or a heart to feel the quality of my fabric.

Choosing instead to think of me as a rag for soiling.

Those responsible will not take ownership.

They never will.

And So I begin.



Three and two a family make… or so it seems from street side view. The home. The cars. The appointed rounds. Mother, father, brothers and daughter all marching about like ants busy at work. To the untrained eye all appeared well. Normal even. Blessed and without stress. After all, both parents were in the home, and both worked. We had things… The neighboring homes of single moms around us seemed to be struggling, but making do.  Eeking out a ‘government’ existence of stamps and funny money. So, by most appearances we were blessed.

Although you never saw us at church.

FAMILY… such a nurturing part of our growth and stability. The balance and backing of surviving life. The Cleavers showed us what the template for family was. A bond of love, unity,  and loyalty… and I desired to have it too in my family. But alas, it was not to be for the underlying secrets held bound me to the cellars of dark lies. A second world behind closed doors. Bent and gagged to silence of the secrets I led a dual existence. Always feeling like I was born unto someone else’s womb for surely this could not be my chosen space or path to live such as this. As a very young child I remember clearly possessing the feeling of not belonging… Of not really fitting into the family I was in. Perhaps it was more the feeling of not being wanted. As I was shifted and gifted away and around like and old rag doll that is temporarily loved. Passed to and fro from relative to relative, and bonding with unfamiliar caregivers. I would wonder to myself, as I lay still in the quiet of the night behind those closed doors each night….

“Who were these two people who held me and kept me, only to keep me kept and bound to them in this horrible secrecy and shame?”

I was old… when I was young.

Always had“old people sense” they used to say.

I don’t know about that, but I did always pay attention!

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