It was a golden afternoon. The sun bared a gentle glow on the stretch of emerald green. Trees wrestled against the breeze; the stranded leav...
Popular Posts
-
I don't really like the term writer's block. It's definitely a real thing, but it isn't like, a thing. By which I mean that ...
-
I am about to write the least artsy and most boring thing on this blog, I think. It's an essay about school so buckle up, y'all, we&...
-
I'm more than a petite Asian girl with limited wardrobe and a less-than-loud personality. I'm more than the Oreo-obsessed lazy fat-a...
-
The tree bent its long arms down, as if to engulf me. Not in the way that a giant claw would engulf you, but in the way that i remember bein...
-
I remember the first time you opened up to me. You were uncomfortable, your plush couch, previously made of clouds had seemingly turned int...
-
The light catches on the polished silver And on the lines of living, flowing red Now I am undoubtable Now I cannot deny that I am The g...
-
tw:suicide There once was a boy, who came in the form of a 13-year-old with messy brown hair, who loved the rain. He loved...
-
( tw: self harm) Write something new because you are not feeling desperate. You are not gasping on the edge of sleep, and your eyes are n...
-
Tw: Suicide, Depression She is walking down the hall "Who is She?" he wonders What does it matter? She is sitting, all ...
-
The rain fell down on the house roof like it was sent on a mission from God. "Doesn't the rain look-" "Nice?" she ...
