Last year I had taken a writing class, I loved it but it was tough and was later turned into a college credit course. I was just looking through my old portfolio and remembered why I love to write so much but it's such a struggle for me... I can write on paper just fine, I've filled three to five sheets of paper front to back in under ten minutes if I had a strong enough idea, but it's typing that's such a struggle for me. I'm not sure why but I feel so distracted, so discouraged because I cannot write as much or as fast. What filled papers now fills one computer page and I don't have too big of handwriting. I wish I was as capable like my friend and so many on here, I'm real jealous...

None the less looking through my portfolio sparked some interest to try to write again, so I want to post the stories and poems onto here and maybe create stories from them or improve upon them. So here is an old Glossa I had created that I feel like making into a little story perhaps.

We grow accustomed to the dark

When light is put away

As when the Neighbor holds the Lamp

To witness her Good bye

When Light is put away, Emily Dickinson

Deep within the corn trenches and the hollow scarecrow's land,

Hides two single rays of sun,

Tucked away in the blanket of the damned.

Rocking a crib that protects her last lamb,

Her last son, the only who would not know

Of his father's embark

Out of the hollow scarecrow's land,

Its eyeless gaze cuts through her lies

He knows where the truth now lurks,

We grow accustomed to the dark.

Deep within the eternal shadows,

Lay the fires of her unknown hell.

The flames echo their joy

To her blinded ears,

The crows cry for their beautiful larks,

They only sing of mourn this day,

They all weep and cry, for the dawning sun

For the withered crops to be renewed.

They all know he has gone astray

When light is put away.

Today the wife waits once again, looking out the candle lit window

Rocking her cradle of hope.

Candle lit dinner for two behind her old, creaky chair

Two glasses of tea drench the air with their almond scent.

Blind eyes stare past darkened foggy panes,

Eyelashes clung to cheeks, freshly damp.

He awaits her no more,

He grieves not for a single child.

He treats you like the damned.

As when the Neighbor holds the lamp.

Hush the heart,

It hides in her fears,

Weaving your mind in her basket,

Pulling it from the truth;

Sinking its deprived fangs through your flesh.

Stuck in famine from your so called lies,

You always knew what he liked.

Injected curves sharper than knives, no natural sway-

There was only a dusty, love baked pie

To witness her last goodbye.