what's left over after you eat the fruit. poems, i think.

buds are the beginnings of new life and its chapters- some good, some bad blossoms only bloom when they flourish through the hardships with a little sun, water, and, of course, love . . . . a collection of poems from late at night when sleep escapes the grasp of reality

no one really sees wind, only its affects on the environment. you'll see it- swaying trees and flying dresses, the wind being caught and struggling and fighting its captor, breaking free and away, away, away. there is something agonizingly human about it. a collection of short stories, excerpts, and other little short things i write sometimes that i don't know what to do with.