She's flying but her feet are touching the ground

Finding the Magic Door.

This is a poem I wrote during my first miscarriage. I know a lot of women who relate to the feelings of a miscarriage but doesn't know how to talk about it or put it in words.

A poem that could be considered relatable.

A poem.

Life in the darkness of the shadows.

This story is simply about springs coming in as winter leaves. Some more complex themes can be noticed, though in its most simple form it can be seen as a coming of spring tale as color is brought back to the forest. I hope you as a reader will enjoy the writing style! I love writing these shorter stories and if anyone would like to see longer writing I would love to add more lengthy pieces.

this poem further justifys what I see in myself , I've risen from a hole and has been aware of my powers the power I have to obtain my persona my beauty my black girl magic my self expression

It’s like I couldn’t look at you in the face It’s like I needed a second to think It’s like I needed a second not to only get used to you but as well your effortless beauty and let it all sink Like Medusa, I was afraid you would turn me into a stone forever exposing the expressions of me falling for you Sitting shoulder to shoulder from you on a bunch of oversized decomposed rocks not too far from the unsettling olive colored river spoke quite of the scenery The rocks were as comfortable as chairs you would find in a movie theater where anywhere you sit was considered having yourself a good seat And I’ve made you laugh so hard until the little creases created from the corners of your eyes became quite the movie

I must speak, for I have too much left unsaid.

The first chapter of my book.

Part One introduction w/ Trigger Warnings.

This is the start of my Solangelo Fanfic "You're Beauty Never Ever Scared Me". Everything on here is copy and pasted from my book.

This is a poem that I wrote for my dog after he passed away.

Drip, drip, drip.

Sometimes the words escape us

A young girl is enjoying her night when she suddenly experiences bone chilling things.

Not all girls are who they come to be. Sometime they hide the snake in roses.

In the heart of the forest, where shadows dance, Resides a creature of mystical trance.

I grew up believing that taste is just a matter of personal preference. Each person has things they like, but no one's preferences are any better than anyone else's. There is no such thing as good taste. Like a lot of things I grew up believing, this turns out to be false, and I'm going to try to explain why. One problem with saying there's no such thing as good taste is that it also means there's no such thing as good art. If there were good art, then people who liked it would have better taste than people who didn't. So if you discard taste, you also have to discard the idea of art being good, and artists being good at making it. This shift in the criteria of greatness is so profound that it is necessary to divide the discussion of the psychology of great art into two sections. The first is devoted to art created prior to the advent of Modern art, and the second is devoted to art in the Modern and Post-Modern era.