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My pen hits the paper. My thoughts all collide. Ideas start flowing. Words have no place to hide. I have a writer's mind. Yet not everyone can see. Because I refuse to conform. And write what's expected of me. I may choose to write about the hate. Which has taken hold of most youth. I may choose to write about the ways of God. Which may be lies to some and others truth. For writing, it seems, goes like the saying. One man's trash is another man's treasure. Or it could even be accompanied by Georgia, people like it like they like the weather. Always changing. Never the Same. You never know what to expect. But what would we have grown to love if there was none seperate from the rest.




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