1. Name: Susan
2. Age: 17
3. Location(optional): Florida
4. What inspires you to write the most?: Uncertainty.
5. Do you feel that you are truly dedicated to writing, and if yes then why; if no, then why not: No because I only write when I need to. When I write it is because I can no longer keep everything inside of me without exploding.
1. Name: Annette Diola
2. Age: 17
3. Location(optional): Guam - An island in the Pacific Ocean that's considered a US Territory 4. What inspires you to write the most?: I'm a sap. I get inspired to write when it's raining or if I meet someone worth writing about. Once, I met my friend's grandma who was legally blind for about 10 years and had regained her sight through surgery. She held onto me hand and told me how wonderful it felt to see her grandchildren. She told me it was like she had just woken up.
5. Do you feel that you are truly dedicated to writing, and if yes then why; if no, then why not: When I'm only writing in my journal, I tend to be very careless. But when I'm writing a story or speech, I'm an critical reviser.
I wrote this a while back and it ended up getting published and then given a few prestigious awards. I didn't really think it was that great, but let me know what you think.
Rise of the Phoenix
Pretty pretty bird, sitting at my window
Cooing softly come to me
I reach out to touch you, but my fingertips are met by ash
Oh, pretty bird, how can this be?
Fiery feathers and a heart so true
How could such destruction fall on you?
I begin to weep, but suddenly there is a stirring
From the ash, you rise anew
But instead of a window, its a mirror I see
Beautiful little phoenix, you are me
shadows paint themselves into the walls
camoflauge beneath towering outlines
of plastic cities beside paper streams
travelling by the light of a silver screen
through the perfection of someone elses' dreams
I will sit beside the salted oceans
and adhere the water to my wounds
Searing pain and magnificent pleasure
Comes with the irritation of a quick fix
An outlined sunset drawn from a shaking hand
Leaves a godless creation in awe of the unknown
And the Diety to watch from the top of forever.
You can say that strangers don't make friends
And that no kiss can taste the same
But with twenty thousand postcards to the promise land
I will rest a while here in this train
Until the resounding whistle takes me home again.