She isn’t one to worry about the future. She isn’t one to have fears. She isn’t one to back away from a challenge. However, she is afraid of failing, she doesn’t want to be a disappointment.

She is the only one who criticizes her mistakes. Everyone sees her triumphs, she sees her defeats.

She is a competitor, her life is composed of WINS and LOSSES. She is told she can be anything, and she will be anything, anything but a loser. She doesn’t want to let anyone down, doesn’t want to be unreliable, doesn’t want to fail.

Who She Is

She was a popular says the crowd of boys, around her desk, up against the wall; a secret geek say the comic books crumpled and hidden at the bottom of her bag; she was a die hard athlete say the discolored bruises on her legs and under her arms; but not an honest peer say the lies she has spit out to save herself.

She was trendy says the faint traces of lip gloss, shimmering in the light; she was precise say the neatly inked correction on her self graded quiz; she was a Teacher’s pet says the warning she got while breaking dress code; but not a loyal girl say the harsh words said by her former best friend.

She was a flirt says the trail of broken hearts that follow her every move; an artist says the loft filled to the brim with her originals; she was a tech wiz say all her rows after rows of self written code; but not a courteous person says the insults that flew out of her mouth like a slap in the face.

Inspired by “Abandoned Farmhouse” by Ted Kooser

The Road Not Taken

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Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
                                          ~ Robert Frost
This poem written by Robert Frost is one of my all time favorites. The way Frost lets us know about his internal struggle while trying to choose the right path to travel down. His crisp description of the yellow, autumn woods where the roads diverged.

Top 3 Must See Places In Texas

World travelers, photographers, or dreamers looking for adventures; all examples of people you may see at the the most picturesque places in Texas.



CC by TrishZatx

 Austin Graffiti Park

This unique place, located in the heart of Downtown Austin, is the  perfect place to let your creativity flow. A place wear artists paint, photographers take, and viewer view the gorgeous graffiti.


CC by Kenneth C. Zirkel

The Driskill Hotel

This said to be haunted hotel is not just special because of its ghost but it’s said to be the most elegant hotel in Austin. From its architecture to its rooms all the way to the exquisite dining experience if your stating overnight, stay at the Driskill.

CC by Brian Wolfe

Alamo Drafthouse Cinema

Watch a flick like never before at The Drafthouse. When watch your favorite film enjoy the taste of freshly popped popcorn, ice cold Coke, and and assortment of candy. So if you’re going to watch a movie, watch it the Texas Way.


“NO! No, no, no no no, no no. Why are you making me?! No no, no, no, no, no!”
“Sweetie, it’s not that bad.”
“Not that bad?! The only reason you would say not that bad was if it was going to be horrible!”
“Mom, I don’t want to go to a different camp this summer!”

I have a system, a schedule that I follow every day, every week, every month, every year. Change is my worst nightmare.

Every year, as soon as school gets out, my best friend, Natalie, and I hop into my mom’s Cadillac and head down the road and pick up fro-yo. With our duffles already packed and in the car we ride to the airport to catch a plane to head to the same camp that we have gone to for the past six years. All of my friends think I’m crazy because I like organization, but I don’t call it crazy, I call it structured.

I know change is inevitable but with change comes chaos. Chaos is not structure.

No change for me.

From the Hart

I start to turn the dial of my old metal locker. “47, 13, 26,” I think, trying to remember my combination, for this is a struggle even though I’m at my locker 5 times a day, 5 days a week. “Finally,” I whisper as my hand grips the metal lever. I lift up, my locker door swing open, full of life. A dozen red roses pour out, falling to my feet. Shock was the only feeling that I felt. I bent down to gather the beautiful flower, when I’m met face to face with a little white card. “Just for you. ~ From the Hart” 

This was the third surprise of this week. A note in my binder, chocolates in my backpack, and a bouquet in my locker. Blushing, I pile the flowers back into my locker, close the door and walk off to class.

” I know who it is! Alice, don’t you want to know who?!” my best friend Courtney taunts. Of course she knows, she is the Queen of Gossip, but still my favorite.

“I’m sure you do,” I causally reply. “I think the mystery is romantic, and if he wants to tell me who he is, then he will tell me…”


“Courtney, you have to tell me her combo!” I plead. I’ve asked five times, now. I wanted to surprise the girl of my dreams. This was going to be the third surprise of the week. Well, it would be if only I had her locker combo.

” Please!” At this point I was begging, it had taken me all week to plan this.

“Fine.” Courtney whispered her combination, ” it’s 47, 13, 26.” My eyes light up.

” Thank you, thank you, thank you!” I reply.

” James Hart, you are something,” she claims, and walks away.

Life Outside the Doll House

“I’m done!!” I want to scream, but it would be useless. The only people who understand me, are the other of my kind. Others who have been packed and bought by other ungrateful little girls — however my people call them brats.

I am a doll and this is my life.

Every day precisely at 3 o’clock, Mandy, my owner, storms in. Slamming the door behind her, she falls to her feet and gets ready to play with me and her 5 dolls. She calls me Anna, Anna is the only name I have ever been called.

Everyday it’s a little different, but the same. Mandy picks me up, and starts undressing me — I wish she would do this in private, it’s so embarrassing– once I’m out of the previous day’s out fit she slips me into a different outfit. Normally my outfits are pink with some sort of glitter but yesterday’s outfit was blue. Once she is finished with wardrobe it’s time for us to plaster on fake smiles and sit through 1 or 2 hours of her boring story, where we are the characters. Most of the time I could care less about the stories, but some times they are bearable. When Mandy’s mom calls her down I know I’m done for the day, she tosses into our doll house and runs down the stairs.

There is not much to it. However the best days are when she takes us all outside into the green field behind her house, I think it’s called a ” backyard.” Those are the days where I zone out during her story and think about life outside of doll house. That’s when I ponder the world of “humans.”

I am Anna the Doll, and this is my life.


I never raise my hand in class, all I can even think of is getting the answer wrong. If I do, laughter fill the room, like I’m stuck in a tank and the water level rises. I drown in the water that is mockery. I’m horrified that one day my teacher will call me out, ask me to answer a question. And that question she asks me will be the one question I don’t know.

That question, were she say, ” Amber, can you show the class how you came to that answer?” That’s the one answer I don’t get. I’m so scared, dreading when that exact moment plays out, I know it’s coming.

Everyday I have to get through: Math. English. Science. Social Studies. Art. Art has never been that bad but the rest of the classes feel like I’m living I’m my worst nightmare. It’s like a bad dream and I’m trying to wake up.

I’m Amber and I’m afraid.

Why Do I Write?

“Why Do I Write?” This question was chalked up on the board when Mrs. Campbell’s 2nd period English classed walked in that door.

This was an easy question for 13 year old Sarah Williams, “I write to inspire,” Sarah though. She hoped that one day, something she wrote will inspire someone to change the world.” I try to write with an intention, I try to write something meaningful. The whole reason I open my notebook and scribble in that old thing is because I want to make a difference in the world, and that all starts with something simple.That all starts with something small. And that’s exactly what she scribbled into her run down old journal.

“Why Do I Write?” This question was chalked up on the board when Mrs. Campbell’s 3rd period English classed walked in that door.

“Why?” thought 13 year old Collin Johnson, “because it’s worth 40% of my grade in this class. Everyday and forced to sit down and scribble something into my notebook. Why. I am told to express my thought on paper, I would do that if the median was not writing.” Collin thought to himself. ” And writing out my ideas isn’t hard, just boring. There is so much I rather be doing in those 20 minutes we are told to use for writing.” Honestly Collin would be much happier doing anything besides writing, but this particular prompt got him thinking. He decided to write exactly what he had just ranted in his head, ” that’s expressing my self, right?”