once a long time ago, dolls were simply a past time with a wild imagination. that was then. day after day, morning after morning,
By Sarah Hamilton5 years ago in Poets
silence. a slight breeze not a passing sound to be heard snowflakes fall from the heavens above softly and gently caressing the earth
What if someone asked you to come up with a brand new color? What does it look like? How can you describe it? Can you?
Flesh. An open wound. Yet, smooth to the eye. As words are formed and art is made, a bit of me becomes lost to it. And yet,
By Sarah Hamilton6 years ago in Poets
a writer with a loss for words a musician with a pause in the melody a technician with no tools a student with blank notes
