We sit on a train rushing through the hills of Italy. Rain hits the polished windows like a long forgotten melody. But you cannot focus on the melancholy rain or the whispering hills because there is a beautiful woman across from you, her delicate hands folded on top of her red skirt. Her eyes track the distance outside of the train, and yours simply admire her. The curve of her lips. The splatter if golden freckles across her high cheekbones. The warm brown of her curling hair. Then she looks at you, with her lovely galaxy eyes, and you realize you’ve forgotten about the loveliness of love in a hateful world.

When I feel suffocated in this world of insensitivity, writing is my outlet. The Prose is the lone place where I can freely depict, analyze, and allocate the tangle of thoughts that lace through my brain.

Writing gives me purpose. Words are what make me feel an undesirable from of beautiful. Literature expresses my emotions with more accurately than anything else in this world. Being able to create complex pieces of art using only the English language is incredible. I will not let my age demarcate the how I am viewed by society.

The realm of Prose has changed my life. I am constantly learning how to improve my writing from amazing, talented authors. Authors who care about your success, and will provide you with advice vital for growing as a poet.

The pleasure of letting ideas flow through my body, and drip though my fingertips is what motivated me to begin writing. I hope to mark my page until the world is inspired. I can only hope that my pen will not run out of ink.