January 2015
Scene: Third grade creative writing class. My teacher asks us to write out a list of our favorite places. As an eight-year-old I wait for a moment with my pencil poised, thinking. I look around me and notice that all of the other students have already set to work scribbling down such things as “my...
So…here we go again with the whole poetry thing…   In long-dead ground a flower grows, In frozen mud and old, old snows. Empty houses…lived in, Wind through bones…like breath. Bloodless hearts to beat again, Could love undo death? A forsaken cross, An empty tomb, A curtain torn in two, The greatest price to mend...

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Far far away, behind the word mountains, far from the countries Vokalia and Consonantia, there live the blind texts. Separated.

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