The Wingchair Traveller

A Poem: written in the morning So many nights of struggle, of convincing and persuasion.  I am lost in a sea of words forgotten or mis...

Don’t call me “dear” it sounds so harsh to my delicate ears Call me by my name but only sometimes I can call you by your name though ...

War Paint The bell for dismissal rings. We rush down the hall Towards our lockers, throwing our social studies books in our bags Fo...

I wake up to darkness. Blank with no light at all. I feel my way towards the window to see if I can make out any light. Nothing. It is a mo...

Cellular Respiration He digs his shovel in Deliberately Metal against rock reverberates As his lower back spasms and springs back ...

When thinking about the question of whether a piece of writing would be considered literary or non-literary recently, I began to wonder abo...