A hall; a tall foreboding house of stone:
Set upon the lonely, stretching snow,
And there, by its rusty iron gate, I stood
With a tall, strange friend I did not know

“Come,” he spoke, and went on, through the gate;
I followed him, past quiet trees which stood
Like long dead sentries, menacing the path,
With blackened leaves and limbs of rotten wood

One rainy night much like this one, my father once told me, "It's rainin' pitchforks and nigger babies" and I laughed,
because I was a child and didn't know any better.

My mother once let me take a sip of coffee in the sewing room.
The drapes were drawn, and I sat on her lap by the window.
She said it was what big people drank, and so I tried it,

I will be nineteen years old tomorrow.
This past year has probably been the most intense year of my life... Me and myself at eighteen have been through a lot together - both brokenness and beauty. Such beauty...