artsygirl123

My back is cushioned by a soft leather, I feel the movement of my body moving downwards, Surely I am being lowered into the ground. My body cradled by the wooden box, My little cocoon, My own little world. "Don't worry honey, you're gonna get better." "Promise?" "Promise. With all my heart, okay?" "Really?" "Of course, my little butterfly." My mind is a blizzard of endless "Why"s The buzzing of my infinite questions is deafening. And I'm not sure I'll be able to rest peacefully. I am a butterfly Unable to wrench free from its cocoon. And butterflies don't like buzzing. Why am I not in heaven by now? Why do I feel myself goin

I am a writer. I really truly am. But I'm told by the critics that I'm too young to be a writer That I'm too young to have experienced real pain and real joy, so that I may put that pain and joy onto paper and make the stories real That I'm too young to know that "love" is, so I can't express the feeling of love in the stories I write That I'm too young to know what real fear is, so I can't show the reader how scary reality is That I'm too young to know what real laughter is, so I can't make characters laugh and have it seem real. Just because I'm young, I'm told that I have no experience and should wait for when I'm older to write. B