Through the cracks, light shines ( Read more... )

Sometimes, when the wind is blowing outside ( Read more... )

He came behind me: “There is a bathroom downstairs ( Read more... )

“I am afraid. I don’t know why. Snakes-fine, Spiders? Okay. But for some reason, I can’t do the thunder and the lightning ( Read more... )

Lincoln to me is the person that I can talk to no matter what, and know that he isn’t judging. Unlike some people I tell my secrets. Not that they don’t love me at the same time. My RA, third floor buddy, and my love of my life roommate all do love me, but as we have all discussed they can be, at times, a bit judgmental. But Lincoln, he just sits ( Read more... )

It’s another one of those things. He didn’t seem to pleased, so I called his mom instead. Mom’s are great. I called his mom and got the information to her house from her, because he was useless. And off in the south with his girlfriend ( Read more... )

Fish. The circle. It is a completely round one, one that never ends. A beautiful full belly, round and round, like the moon. Like the sun. Like the world. Like life. In my life, the circle sometimes gets stopped, sometimes slows and slows and slows and it feels like maybe it will be over…but it never is. It has never been. It always goes round and ( Read more... )

It ends. We’re done, out the door-intermission. “How’d you like it?” If I look upset, it’s because I am. Hard times I went through during freshman year, hard times. But I was determined to get through them with small amounts of crying a minimal feeling sorry for myself. (I think that so far, I had done a pretty good job. I’d say.) I was, but I was ( Read more... )

Anyways, back to college. College is a place where you meet these new people that supposedly are going to change the rest of your life. So I was waiting, here, in this same room, waiting for my life to start changing. Waiting, breathing, writing, breathing, waiting, etc. And nothing seemed to be happening-so I decided to do what any right-minded ( Read more... )

When you write, you expect someone to read. Not that it has to be read multiple times, or by people other than yourself, or your roommate who owes you from the time she kicked you out so she could play with the one boy named after Jimmy Dean sausages, but you do expect to someday, somewhere, have someone look at your writing (even if it is the ( Read more... )