I'm a poet and a fiction writer. I can write quite decent essays, but I'd rather tell stories of the heart and speak with my whole soul.
It used to be that "Home" Was a place intangible, Found only in storybooks and Words strewn together To paint pretty pictures
The next week Charlie couldn’t help but feel heavy when his father came to pick him up from school. They were going to the rec center to sign him up for basketball. He’d get all gross and sweaty and he’d definitely not be able to wear anything pretty. If he tried there was no way he wouldn’t get teased. Charlie’s classmates already thought he was weird because he liked so many girly things. At least, he guessed, this would help them see him as more boyish. Because boys had to be boys. And boys didn’t like girly things like frills and lace. They liked mud and sports and trucks.
She was absolutely stunning. The way her red velvet dress fanned out around her hips when she spun. The click of her shoes as her partner whirled her to and fro rang throughout the hall. Charlie had never seen anything so amazing. He sat on the edge of his seat, big brown eyes wide and twinkling in his awe. It was like nothing else existed but the woman and the curve of her arms inward as she spun in circle after circle, her legs occasionally dipping out to make her look long and graceful.
The Three Mean Little Pigs
This are-write of The Three Little Pigs that I wrote in 6th Grade. I recall that it was a school project where I had to re-write a classic fairy tale. There are some edits just to make the story a bit easier to read, but for the most part I've left the grammar, wording, and concepts as they were. This is just a ridiculous, silly, good-natured fairy tale, as told by Bernard Anthony Dean Wolf. So sit back, have a laugh, and enjoy.
I try so hard To be stone. To be a volcano. To give the illusion Of an ocean. But I know Every stone must crack, Every volcano erupt,
Oh how I have failed Me. Only now Do I realize What a fool I have been. I laughed, I lied, I believed I had fallen
Self Infliction Election
How do I tell you The years have tried My heart More than time Has aged me And the tribulations Of my soul Remain for you
**I'd like to start this poem with a forewarning. It's meant to be ironic. It's meant to portray a certain mindset and to negate that mindset, because why would you ever stand still, unmoving and unchanging? If you relate or have had these thoughts, I beseech you, please seek help. It isn't okay and you are worth so much more than you know. Take it from someone who had to be there to know, to write these words: you are enough. You will be okay. And you deserve better.**
When you are sad, Angry or hurt, Unloved or depressed, Go ahead. Let it out. Kick and scream, Curse and flee. When family
What About Me?
You say So many things About my friends, Behind their backs, Yet in front of me. Sometimes I wonder, What might you say
How do I know I'm telling the truth When I cry out? How do I know I haven't fabricated All of it To soothe my broken soul?