A Poem from Grace.

But why mourn the woes of winter, when the birds lay stark and stiff so stern was Ida's snow? Or summers scorch, on a lazy noon, when the sea fell level and asleep under a windless sky? Why mourn old woes? Their pain has passed.

A Poem from Grace.

if only my life was like the book the giver. i wouldn’t worry about boys. if only my life was like the book the giver. our streets wouldn’t be covered in toys. if only my life was the like the book the giver. i wouldn’t have to make decisions like these: i’d know what to study. i’d know what i was going to be. i’d know when to be where. i wouldn’t be crying to sparknotes trying to decide on college options.

Incognito Prowler

A Poem from Grace.