Vol > Writing | WritersCafe.org | The Online Writing Community

Sometimes I can move with the music, sometimes not. These scars on my knees and the palms of my hands bear witness to a path littered ..

Where was I before I was here? This identity, This personality? This consciousness? How did I coalesce? Am I just a bunch of ne..

I like to walk in the woods without paths or trails. You see, I follow Papa. That old man would cut a walking stick when he’d tak..

Someone’s watching all the time, you know? I’m not talking about the cameras, omnipresent, becoming omniscient; looking d..

When she needs to talk I can feel it in my stomach where anxiety lives, and anger, and butterflies. It is genetic, I think, he..

Momma's yellow table had chrome legs and chairs to match. The whole family ate buttermilk biscuits, fresh eggs and a hundred ..

The Idyllic dreams of what once was... when we agreed that right was better than wrong, and knew the difference, when we always aimed hi..

On the other side of this wall, cold waitswith teeth bared and a sneerwhile I can do nothing to hold it at bay. Erato sleepswith back turned ..

There aren’t a thousand people within a hundred square miles of my place on the Llano Estacado. I’m fairly good at li..

Her name is Tracy K Smith and when she reads her poetry of didactic imagery, she is soft and sensual as D.H. Lawrence when he leans that..