Message from Writer

When I was little, I wrote stories about things I could never do, but wished to, people I would never meet, but wished to. Today I write to be heard. For being heard is as important to me, as it would be for those who can not speak. I write to understand myself in a way that fiction is believed by children - to draw a character and breath life into them, is to ignite the fire in hundreds, if not thousands of people.

If you write, congratulations - you’re a writer. Though, you are not an author until the ink that flows from pen to paper creates a story unlike any you’ve ever heard - the story that leads you down your own yellow brick road.

I wish to one day be not a legend, but a legacy for the next generation.
Who will you be?

In The East

August 10, 2018


The bullets rained down, as the first snow fell.
A white that could drown, in the fires of hell.
Cold as ice, is the piercing pain.
The highest price, for our enemies vain.

Help can not come, for I should know.
We follow a drum, of the casualty’s woe.
Thy torn to shreds - hearts, mind and soul.
Our lives like threads, to never be whole.

No birds dare fill, the ash-stricken sky.
For every kill, is another man’s lie.
The winds carry songs, of the lost and deceased.
A family that longs, for their son in the East.


See History
  • August 10, 2018 - 2:38am (Now Viewing)

Login or Signup to provide a comment.