Slowly seaming,
The seamstress works,
Bonds apron bonds,
Wood against cold metal,
Constant undying rhythm,
Except for the fatal flaw,

Crunching and cracking,
Roaring and wailing,
The machine shrieks and screams,
String intertwined in elaborate patterns,
Tense and full,
Great strength,
Great courage,
The great barrier snaps in two,

Gears discarded,
Frame forgotten,
Cord detached,
But Life flows still


Under the lamplight, there stands a figure,
Under the street, there walks a mouse,
Under the sky, there sleeps a river,

Great echoes off light streak across the endless black blanket,
Reflecting off the tranquil sene,
Shadows creep along the winding roads,
Yet they stop in disbelief,

Looming above the vast blue surface,
Definitely marches The Moon,
It extends it’s gentle gentle hand,
Caressing the nights inhabitants,

Over the horizon,
Waits patiently a giant,
His rays lick the corners of a new begging,
His smile laminates life,
His hands guide our every move,

The Fox

Inspired by “The Shark” by Edwin John Pratt

Her body was narrow
Slim with starvation
Dry with dehydration
Constricted with suffocation
Crystal blue, now tinted grey were her eyes
She stalks, hidden from site
Narrowing with a focused gaze
Her eyes track the frolicking hare
Quick feet,
Sharp teeth,
Witty decisions,
Her eyes darken ever more
Coat of white, heart of blue,
For there is not a sanctuary

By: me


Pixabay CC0

Under the bridge the gate does seal,

Just as midnight begins to reel,

Bleak black starlight,

Ghastly gay moon,

All lay under the grey man’s spoon,

By: Me


In this poem, I attempted to capture the feeling of looking into the night sky. Causing a mixture of emotions, my poem coveys as more abstract that narrative.



Three Breath Taking Sites In Texas

Texas is a vast state inside the expansive United States. It’s people as diverse as it’s landscape. This list provides crucial information into Texas’s most awe inspiring locations.

nasa-621411_1280 (1)

Space Central Houston

In the largest city in Texas, lies the gate way to other worlds. Space Central Houston has provided visitors with an unparalleled experience. Rediscovering the past and uncovering the future, visitors will never leave without new found knowledge.


Big Bend National Park

Lying on the border between Mexico and the United States, Big Bend National Park offers a incredible of the surrounding desert and the Rio Grande River. Big Bend’s endless trains provide hiking for any adventurer, and it’s   campsites allow a place to relax under the colorful rays of sunlight as the sun disappears under the mountains.

All photos Pixabay CC0


In the Deep South of the United States, there lies a strange oddity. Fredericksburg is a town driven by culture. It’s narrow streets provided a Texan’s look into the german style of life. Selling bazar and intricate item, shops line the streets. The air carries the ever present strong scent of fudge and schnitzel.

Shadow of the Light.

Floating eternally, the object lays suspended on the endless black of day and night.

The orbs of finite radiance flickers as the monolith draws nearer. Intoxicated by its power, the orb is herded by the object.

Fear runs as deep as the ores of our world. Relentless in its actions, yet cruel in its words.

Darker than our deepest desires, Brighter than our own intent, Larger than society of interlinked consciences.

Fading in and out of existence, fabrics of our dimension seem to collide in an implosion.

Casting aside any thing in the way, a shock wave announces its pressence.

Suffocating the light, everything is encumbered to the dark.

Cycle of the Infinte

Rising slowly, the sun peers out from its black blanket. Evloping the tranquil land in an embrace, caressing the dew laden grass, bathing the endless curtain of blue. It shimmers down upon the calm scene, yet it does so with tender care.

Hanging suspended, The Sun watches down and smiles on the thriving wildlife. Deers prance slowly across the prairie. They stare peacefully at their sphere of life, bathing in its glorious rays.

The Sun paints the sky with a vast range of colors. Like a battleground, the sky explodes with oranges and reds. Its colors dull as The Sun dips below the endless horizon, and the black blanket of the universe encloses around its baby with a mothers care.

When the Bells Ring

Wet leaves pick up on the cold wind; they glide slowly into the air before descending back to the ground. Trees sway with the weight of the subtle wind. Pebbles move slowly down small streams. Sounds of birds echo throughout the dense forest. Families of deer lay sleeping in the dim sunlight. Out in the shadows, a man stands still, coiling rugged rope around his hand firmly. Deep lines traverse his face, pale as the apparitions of the dead. His sunken eyes flow with salty tears, his hands caked in dry blood.

Wind circulates through the quiet house, warm and welcoming. Chests rise and fall to the rhythmic beat of the heart. Out in the corner, fragile hands grasp soft cloth. Rosy cheeks poke out of the tender care of the cradle. Smiling with the comfort of dreams, a man sleeps next to his betrothed. His betrothed lies gingerly curled up next to her husband. All is silent in the dead of the night. Quickly, without question, there is the sound of glass shattering. Shards of glass disperse in all directions before laying to a halt. With surprise the man wakes suddenly, shocked and confused. He jumps out of bed to investigate this event.

Silence ensues as the man walks toward a tree. Birds no longer chirp, deer no longer slumber, the trees no longer sway. Howling in distress, the wind dies away slowly. Slender and tall, the tree towers over the man below. Gripping with grim intent, the man scales the tree. His rough hands dig deep into the bark. Sounds of cracklings echo through the forest as branches snap beneath his weight. He grunts as his hands are ripped open with contact on the rough bark of the tree. He continues his ascent to the top.

Stairs groan as the man rushes down with fright. His hands curl up into tight fists, ready to strike. Cold wind bites his skin: cold turns his rigid skin pale. Doors crack under the pressure of the doubt, crying out with dismay. Screaming, the wind enters the house with dread. Solitary the roundabout stands. It beckons him forward to the scene. Grasping the corner with a gentle touch, the man looks around the corner. Draped firmly on the ground lays a fallen paladin of crystals, shattered and discarded. He stares on in awe, his gaze fixed with disbelief. He looks frantically in every direction, but not before he feels the cold grasp of metal against his head.

Birds flee in the opposite direction as the man breaks the surface. His hand tightens to the rope at his side. He stares out into the vast forest before him, his eyes reflect only black. His red hands begin to move as he slowly loops it around his sturdy neck. Rough and worn, it tears his already damaged skin. Tying the rope to the near continuous branch, he stares down at the floor below him.

The man’s eyes widen, his hands enclose into cramped fists. His brow sweats profusely. The sound of a click resonates through the hallway. Everything draws breath in anticipation. The man, in a last desperate resort, stomps on his assailant’s foot. His moment of satisfaction is short lived as he hears a loud sound echo in his ears. He stares down to his chest and sees in horror as the blood soaks his wrinkled flannel. Left to die, he collapses onto the glass filled hallway. Feet patter as they make their way to the man’s bedroom. A woman screams, one shot echoes. It is quiet. A baby cries, one shot echoes. It is silent. The barrel clicks once more, and one shot echoes.

His stare is as dark as the now morning sky. It skims the vast land beyond, searching it desperately. He looks to his left and sees a morning bird perched on a branch. Outstretching his hand, he attempts to stroke the bird. It stares deeply into his eyes before flying gracefully away. Never did it another thought. The man stares longingly at the bird before shifting his gaze to his chest. Blood is plastered across the already red fabric. His hand finds it’s way under his shirt and feels a gaping hole. It is crude but fine and clean. He removes his hand quickly, as if the wound stung him. Grunting, he stands up. A depth of appealed magnitude stands before him. Daunting…taunting… He looks up and whispers. It’s carried on the wind and forever lost. He leaps. The rope snaps and stays still.

My Scholastic Art and Writing Awards Submission

On December 16 of this year, I submitted a writing piece entitled “When the Bells Ring” to the Scholastic Art & Writing Awards. This was a very important moment for me because it allowed me to share my writing with a larger audience. This means that I am also able to experience more diversity.

My writing piece is in my eyes a challenge to traditional thinking. With the encouragement of the deadline, I was able create something that was abstract but still had structure. It was shaped around the emotions of what I perceived around me. Ever changing, I continued to edit and revise your piece. I looked for the tiniest of details that could have distracted or mislead the reader. Then after the long process, I felt that it was complete.

On December 16 of this year, I submitted a writing piece to be critiqued and judged. This will be the testament of the beginning my tedious career as a writer. Whether or not my piece is successful, I still have hope for the future.


What do we mean to the future? What does the future mean to us?

These questions have been pondered by past and present generations. After all, the decisions we make will ultimately affect the futures of our children. If we so desire to make eco logically dire situations, it will be the responsibility of those future generations to help fix or delay the problem.

In my opinion, it appears that over the last decade, the rush for innovation has clouded the mind with greed and lust for power. It is our decision if we should intervene. It is our decision if we will comply.

We mean everything to the future, and the future means everything to the past.