Tag Archives: writing

Mid-Sentence ~ In 100 Words

I have so many drafts

Poems or stories that stop mid-sentence

because they don’t feel right

like my brain is revolting against my finger tips and I can’t type another word

Emotions halted

Dialog hanging

Characters mid-movement

I have ideas but

they never come to fruition

So I do the normal remedies for writers block

but no matter how good the book is

my fingers and brain just do not line up

I have ideas bouncing everywhere to be written about

but I just can’t scribe the words

So I try and it’s going swell

until the flow stops  . . .

writer's block



Our eyes have adapted

From seeing landscapes and hunting animals

From seeing paper and writing in ink

to now seeing screens and tapping on them.

The question posed to us,

as individuals.

is if we can keep up

with the rest of society

by adapting.



To You Who Gave Me Writing

To you who gave me writing

To my mother who spent hours with brightly colored flashcards

taught me that a semi-circle shape was a “C”

To my grandmother who would trace letters on my back

taught me the touch of words

To my parents who wrote down in my daily journal I what I told them to write

taught me the recording power of words and that my words mattered

To my mother who on that just beginning to cool, hot summer evening in the kitchen

taught me the letters in my name

To my father who would read to me comicbooks from his childhood

taught me that I can be enthralled in compelling stories and heroic characters

To my mother who persevered against my whining in forcing me to read beginner level “Bob Books”

taught me that I can be a critic of what I read but I still have to respect it

To Miss Griffin, my kindergarten teacher, who after reading a story about ducks

taught me that “ing” means action, a verb

To Mary Pope Osborne who wrote Magic Tree House, the first books I ever read and enjoyed by myself

taught me the joy and accomplishment of reading

To Ms. Hinds, my fourth grade teacher, who gave me an assignment to give a biographical speech about someone famous

taught me how empowering public speaking can be

To Ms. Benford, my elementary school librarian, who found for me my favorite childhood author

taught me to try new genres and that “different” can bring some of best things

To Margaret Peterson Haddix who was my favorite childhood author and filled my childhood with characters and situations and words and choices

taught me how other’s writing can touch my life

To Ms. Burke, my fifth grade teacher, who gave me an assignment to write a mystery story

taught me the power and excitement of my own fiction

To Ms. Cothran, my public speaking coach, who saw potential in me and changed a shy, analytical girl to a animated girl and a lover of poetry and my own writing

taught me that my writing impacts others and that I have a voice, so use it

To Ms. Mihocko, my seventh grade teacher, who critiqued me hard

taught me that my style is not enjoyed by everyone

To Pastor Randy who gave my first chance to preach a real sermon

taught me to follow my dreams and to work for the Lord

To Ms. Conley, my freshman english teacher, who opened my eyes to the wondrous world of writing and analyzing literary devices

taught me why and how I love the written word

To WordPress who gave me a way to share my writing

taught me that others value my work and that I should take pride in it

To Economics summer test that hours upon hours spent pointless stem and response that no one will ever glance at

taught me that purpose of writing is to convey a meaningful message that will be read


To you who gave me writing

and to all I left out in this poem

I thank you dearly

for writing

allows me to create my world

both in fiction

and not


To God who created the heavens and the earth and everything in between

for giving me something to write about

To God who gave me a mind to comprehend writing and all of its glorious intricate relationships

To God who gave the world writing at its perfection, the Bible

To God who allows me to spread His Word through my words


To you who gave me writing

To you who gave me the power to change the world

To you who gave me the power to change my life

To you



My Loves

Oh where would I be without you, my loves?

No warm embrace to curl around me when I need a tender reminder of reality

No burst of flavor and passion spicing up my life

Nothing to hold onto when fantasy pulls at my fingers

My old, not-so-soft-anymore blanket where would my writing be without you?

My Paper Mate mini colorful pens (0.7 mm to be exact) where would my writing be without you?

My Superman hacky sack (probably made in China) where would my writing be without you?

Even if it is summer, I still reach out to my dearest blankie for assurance, for comfort, for safety,

within its confines I am able to contain my sporadic thoughts and control them.

I love to see feel my pens bleed across the page simultaneously as my mind does in the waning hours of the day,

they release the written memories to my journal while transfixing me with their colorful hues.

When the words escape me for a moment or dare I say be afflicted with a writer’s block, I clutch my hacky sack and trace it’s pattern of truth, justice and the American way,

until I am able to grip the keys that give way to living, breathing words.

Oh where would I be without you, my loves?

But where would I be without my parents to give me the time to write,

or without education to allow me to discover my passion,

or the opportunity for books to digest other writing styles,

or without language given by the Pooh-Pooh Hypothesis (thanks AP Comp summer homework!) to communicate in the first place.

But for right now, I’ll just settle to ponder about my blankie, pens, and hacky sack because they cannot even soothe the thought of not having language.


My Loves


Writing Prompt #47: Why shes doesn’t scream

She wanted to scream

and cry

and yell

and howl

and wail

She wanted to scream

But yelling

is for fighting

and threats

and wars

and break ups

She wanted to scream

but didn’t want the fight

She wanted to scream

but screaming is for fighting

So she let her heart scream

and cry

and yell

and howl

and wail

louder and louder

So she let her writing scream

and cry

and yell

and howl

and wail

louder and louder

So she let her silence scream

and cry

and yell

and howl

and wail

louder and louder

Soon her heart, writing, and silence yelled louder than she could

She wanted to scream

And so she did

But without the fighting

and threats

and wars

and break ups

She wanted to scream

but didn’t want the fight

So she screamed with her heart, writing, and silence

Louder and louder



bionicteaching via Foter.com / CC BY-NC

Poetry To Me

Why do I like to write poetry so much?

Because I think in fragments

and poetry allows me

to write that way.

Poetry is continuous thought,

one continuous breath

one continuous life

and sometimes

“- , ; : )’.?” Punctuation gets in the way

Poetry flows

like a river

taking turns and

bending bends

but always continuing on

to flow.

Poetry is like a shattered mirror

fragmented and

confusing at times

because of the ability to be


but all the same time

when a reader reads

the words can be reflected back onto him

showing him his faults and failures

and forming words of affirmation and affection

that dialog or epistles cannot.

Poetry can be shallow as

a bird bath in a drought

or as deep as

a mother’s love

But to the poet

To the poet

everything has meaning

every jot and tittle

word choice

line breaks

Chosen with careful thought

to express an emotion

or moment

so striking it had to be caught.

Poetry is not just about love

(yes this I once did think)

but expressing every emotion

emojis can

and cannot

(hard to believe, I know)

Poetry can be written about

gum wrappers and school hallways

(’tis I who ascribed the words)

or can be penned about

the love of God.

So I have to ask

what is poetry

to you?