I am not the best at what I do. But I am not the worst either. Oh how I hate to admit that I'm a jack of all trades but a master of none. For I do not have the willpower to focus only on one. My mind shifts like bullets amidst a war, or as Lightning and thunders clash among a storm. My eyes, my hands, and my body all individual being that wait for no one to proceed and pursue its thirst for knowlege, their hunger for more. I can't stand by the idea that I will be the best or nothing at all, for I would be nothing if not for it all.

I would like to say I write for pleasure. That when I lift my pen or pencil and it crashes upon the page I am filled with euphoria that ends where the page and my pen separate. But that would be a lie. I write because I am entrapped with a muse. A muse I would like to call my friend but is more like a forced companion. She comes and goes like the wind from each corner of the globe. I could be reading, eating or sleeping and she will softly visit without any prior notice. And when I least expect it she wacks me across the head with ideas, people, places and feelings I’ve never met or seen. She jams my mind with scenes and relationships that are streamed like a movie. And unless I write she replays these scenes over and over again until for months all I been living are these forsaken scenes. I live in the worlds she creates, I befriend, love and lose the people she creates. My mind becomes a sick mind game I can’t escape unless my hand lifts a pen to lands it upon a sheet and materialize the words she can’t physically speak. I would like to say I write for pleasure, but the reality of the situation is that I write to survive and live in peace.

- @Shardagra

ALL the words that I utter,   And all the words that I write, Must spread out their wings untiring,   And never rest in their flight, Till they come where your sad, sad heart is,  And sing to you in the night, Beyond where the waters are moving,  Storm-darken’d or starry bright. @Teddybear9979

- William Butler Yeats. b. 1865

I don't really know why I love this, maybe, because his words did fly and reach me. And that in itself is amazing.

The way he looked at me with eyes filled with adoration. The way he would hold me in his arm as if I might float away. The sound of his laughter accompanied by his blinding smile. The roses he would send me whenever we were apart for too long filled my senses with a lovely scent that always reminded me of him. As I allow my trust to fully embrace his love.

The way he looked at with his familiar vacant eyes. As if he never saw me but through me. The repulse I felt with his rough grip as he dares me to leave. His mocking laughter and arrogant smirk as I realized he never took me seriously. The wilting roses discarded and dead in my trash bin as there stink reminds me of him. As I allow my trust to fully embrace my hate for him.

- @DoveRaptor

The clock won’t stop ticking. Tick tock, tick tock it taunts as it reminds me of the time that won’t stop, that won’t wait for me to catch up. The clock keeps ticking as I try to hide behind the shelf of expired drinks in this dingey, dirty convenience store. But what convenience has it brought, as I try to find shelter from the rain and all I get are glares from the man behind the screen. But unless he yanks me out I won’t leave, I refuse to go back to the cold, wet, unforgiven streets. I refuse to continue to lay on the hard, rough concrete that surrounds this city. I refuse to continue deteriorating my dignity as I scavenge for food in trash bins and back alleys. I refuse to continue to accept the pity of fools and be stolen blind in every shelter in this county. The clock won’t stop ticking. With every tick my body shifts and shifts as if in tune with each minute and every second as it continues to tick. The man won’t stop staring, won’t stop glaring and the rain won’t stop pouring. The clock won’t stop ticking. I am tired, I am angry, but most of all the clock won’t stop ticking! I don’t need anyone’s help, all I need is me. How dare the man value this expired, gross, old drinks over me. The clock won’t stop ticking! The man is still glaring and why won’t it stop raining? Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock, STOP! I grab whatever is around me, I run. I can’t breathe. I can’t leave, the man blocks the door and points a gun at me. Do you really value these drinks more than me? The clock won’t stop ticking not even when the man pulled the trigger and shot me.

Crayon between the wooden seats,

Stuffed Bears staring at me from the table

A courtroom

Wearing a mask of toys

Unknown faces surround me

I am alone in my dinosaur t-shirt

The large man in black robes hangs above me

And speaks in a language I’ve never learned to speak

I stand when they stand

I sit when they sit

Yet I still don’t understand

Child Deportation

Civil Court

No lawyer

What do these words mean?

Where is my family?

Behind me

There's a line

Of children like me

Confused

Scared

With a stuffed bear

I am not alone

I grab MY bear

And when I hear my name, we stand together.