Nonfiction

To be told you can write anything makes it hard. The freedom gives you too much room. Seems easy, but really, the possibilities become overwhelming. I am not a writer. I write because that is what I am told to do.

I can remember being five years old, sitting cross-legged on the floor and finding out that trees breathe. That they inhale the carbon dioxide we humans puff into the atmosphere, and release the oxygen we chug every second of our lives.

Cinderella showed up during dusks final fanfare,
Her elegance, blinding,
pure white diamonds drench her figure
glistening in radiant light.
Her unexpected arrival and undeniable flawless beauty is cause for stares,

five things i'm super grateful for today:
1. my awesome family
2. my amazing and supportive friends
3. a good education
4. writing
5. jokes (does anyone know any good ones?)
 

Dear Fellow Vermonters,

Spuce tree´s are beautiful and full of life their branches sway in the wind as I think of all the memories Ive had with the old tree.

The right to choose has been something long debated for years. The right to allow women to make a choice about their own bodies. A choice that could change their life forever.

Write a letter to a famous person completely in verse or with just one photo.

  We've never been to this park before. I've never heard of it before. We sit in an isolated, slightly shady cement area with tables. Behind us is a dark wood fence, with ivy crawling up its boards and pine needles drowning in its depths.

If I had to relive a day of my life over and over again I would relive one of the days that I went to disney world. I don’t really remember what happened there so I would love to experience it again.

The world outside is empty.
No people walk about.
Those who do are not recognizable, with half of their faces covered up in cloth.
The world is shaken, paused.
Markets plummet as cases rise.