Nonfiction

At this point things are just confusing at this point, My mind is like its fighting itself over something even if both are wrong, I wish my mind wasn’t like how it is,I wish it could things right for ones, for it to do good things for myself instead

It was a cold but warm day. I walked into the school and wandered the halls to find my classroom. A large door appears out of nowhere and slightly creeks open as I push.

The first day of first grade my mom woke me up with breakfast sandwiches. It was waffles,bacon,egg and cheese. Then after we finished breakfast we rushed to school. I was super excited. Then we got there and the principal started talking.

One of the only things I remember about 1st grade was when me and another classmate got into a fight, with sticks as weapons.

Growing up I never really felt like I was a part of something. I always felt like an outcast. I would be friends with different people but they never really made me feel like they were my best friend.

I don’t really remember the first day of first grade or much about it except who my teacher was and what my classroom looked like and that it was harder than kindergarten.

Dear YWP, 

From the bottom of my heart, 
Thank you.
Again.

Calm heat, the breeze, rolling out stresses. Beginning lap one around the house. Annie, running fast in doggy bliss. Lazily turning the corner, my daze broken as I watch in horror, my beloved dog ferociously barking at a bear family of three.

Church Street was abuzz with activity as I walked down the brick cobblestones. When I discovered a spot across from the restaurant, the diners there shifted in their seats, obviously bracing for unpleasant squeakiness.

When I was a kid, there was nothing I wanted to be more than a Revolutionary War reenactor.  I would don my Little House on the Prairie-esque dress and bonnet and go the events like the pole-capping and encampments a few towns over.

I wonder if there is such a thing as too much feeling
maybe my arms ache for you too much to hold the pen