Someday I will look back, As I do now, All of the voices in my head, And all of the worrying so loud, The small moments of peace that I had felt in the midst of it all,
It is not easy to write, Cutting open my wounds with a metaphorical knife, I am bleeding on to the page, Too many thoughts in an Authors mind,
I packed my things, and kissed my family goodbye, Taking only a couple things I needed, Ask I drove away into the abyss. Yes I was scared,
I miss the sense of what it felt like to be home, at one point it was sitting between my mother and father, muzzled next to them,
What Could Have Been
It is winter. I honestly don’t remember what year it is. Crazy-- how time seems to stand still, moving through you, while you stay halted in one spot. It has been one hell of a decade, nearly all of the world's population made their way to Mars and cut off complete contact with Earth. There is one town left here that the rest migrated to, maybe a thousand people. Everyone is trying to survive. No capitalism, no money, no instruction, just the remains of what was left. I would call it a cultural reset.
Wisdom of Life
I don't think I have ever genuinely fit in; because in reality-- in society, it is quite hard to truly fit yourself in a category.
Creativeness In My Blood
It started with my Grandmother, Dorothy Pfalzgraf, an Irish woman who was very involved with her culture. She was a woman of strength, will power, and courage. She held my family together like the quilts she sewed, the precise stitching and patchwork.
The Frustration of An Aspiring Author
I started writing at the ripe age of 9. My father, a former college professor, had read me stories of greatness, inspiration, and dedication.