Nonfiction

A dogwood tree grows in my front garden. It is small, somewhat peaked, somewhat scrawny. It's imperfect. That tree has watched me grow up.

I want to build you a castle, even though I can barely use a screw driver.
I want to write you a song, one that would make you think of me on a whole new level,
One you could listen to when we're apart.

I look outside my window and I see a collection of trees; no not trees, a collection of memories. I see everything I love and everything I ever want to be. Sure, they’re just trees to some, but to me, they are like family.

We’ve all heard the classic saying “One person’s trash is another person’s treasure,” but what makes something trash or treasure? What makes someone categorize it as trash? Is it because it's “useless” or maybe it’s because it's worn out?

Let’s start here, you , your hands , and your stupid leather jacket. 

I have been through a lot

I have manys scars

Both physical scar

And scars that are from my past

Lots of my memories have scars

So it’s hard for me to think about the good things from my past

Six hours and 31 minutes away from where I live is the Virginia Creeper Trail. A couple miles into the trail from the Tenessee side, there is a tree with a house built on it. A treehouse.

During the last two days, I was making a slideshow of pictures for my dad’s birthday present.  It was about six minutes long and had music in the background.  I have a very large family, so we are never all together or in the same place.&nb

It's arms encircle me. The same arms that my mother, my uncle, my aunt; the same arms that embraced them. They climbed the tree, knew it's roots, traced the leaves, years before me.

Swimming with faes has never been easy, reason being they don't like water that much.

When I was about eight years old, I started to hold onto almost every little broken electronic thing in my house. I saved everything from bug zappers to remote control cars. As long as it was broken and used electricity, I saved it.