This prompt comes from someone I know. Write a poem that uses repetition.


Take the time to learn.

There is always something new.


Take the time to travel. This is your world. 

Go see its beauty.


Take the time to speak to your loved ones. 

Don’t wait to hear from them.

They’re waiting for you.


Take the time to set your phone down. 


Take the time to get more sleep.

Take the time to drink enough water.

Take the time to exercise. 

This is your body. 

Care for it the way it cares for you.


Take the time to eat chocolate cake. 

You deserve to be spoiled sometimes.


Take the time to fall in love. Don’t rush it.

Make sure he’s the one.


Take the time to braid your hair

even if you’re thirty.


Take the time to reflect in the mirror. Compliment yourself 

even when it’s hard to do.


Take the time to mourn your losses, but don’t forget

there is good in the world.


Take the time to do what makes you happy. 

Go shopping. Sing in the shower.

Write a poem. 


Take the time to be alone.


Take the time to smile at strangers. 

They need it more than you know. 


Take the time to walk your dog. 


Take the time to care for your mental health.

If you just focus on the outside,

You’ll only look complete.

One Object

This prompt comes from  You can save one object before your house burns down. What is it? What makes that object important to you?

In a choice between every object I own, I would probably save my computer. Not because of an addiction to technology, but because it is my lifeline to my writing. There’s something about allowing my hands to freely type across a keyboard that allows me to say the things I need to, even if I don’t know what I’m saying yet. I have so many files saved from so many different stories, poems, and prompts that I would feel devastated to lose. My computer basically goes everywhere with me, because there’s always inspiration and a need to write. I have worked too hard on the pieces I have saved, finished and unfinished. My pieces of writing are a part of me, and I’d feel like I lost something huge if I didn’t have them anymore.

There’s a lot of sentimental things in my house, gifts from people, souvenirs from places I’ve been, or books I’ve collected, and I would be devastated to lose each and every one of them. But if I couldn’t hold on to the pieces of writing that have become a part of who I am, I believe it’d make me feel like I lost a part of myself.

Fiction in Five Hundred

This prompt comes from A character is moving to another city. She visits her favourite public place and sees something that makes her want to stay. Describe this in 500 words.

As she sat on the swing at the park three blocks from her house, a feeling of loss overwhelmed her. She had been to that park a thousand times. Now she was moving a thousand miles away. She didn’t know when she’d ever sit on those swings again. Even as a teenager, the park was her safe haven, a place of solitude against the rest of the world. She could leave her home and return to the park at any time. It held memories of her childhood. The hill across the way had been her favorite place to go sledding. Falling from the monkey bars had caused her first broken bone. She had even received her first kiss under the purple slide.

Rising from the swing, she wandered across the park until she found herself under the slide. She closed her eyes and pictured Tony Marshall, a boy she hadn’t thought about in two years. He had moved away shortly after they had broken up, and left all of his memories of her behind. She then crossed to the monkey bars and reached up to touch the metal poles. She didn’t even have to stand on her tiptoes to accomplish this task. At one time, the monkey bars were the greatest obstacle in her life.

Sitting on the steps of the playground, she bowed her head, placing it in her hands. Tears came to her eyes, as memories of her childhood consumed her emotions. How could she leave this place? How could she walk away and leave everything behind, like Tony Marshall had? Would she forget all of her childhood memories? Would she lose contact with her best friends? Would she forget the park, like it would forget her? This park that had become home to other children, roaming the playground. Her absence wouldn’t be missed.

And what was she leaving it for? The intention was to start a new life, to leave everything behind. Was she really capable of doing such a thing? Could she move on and pretend that she didn’t care where her first kiss had taken place or how badly she had hurt her ankle? And what would happen when she started a family of her own? Could she live with the idea of her children growing up in a major city, where there wasn’t a park around the corner to run to? Should those thoughts stop her from moving forward?

She returned to the swings and stared up at the darkening sky. There had been so many nights she had spent under the stars, watching the sky as the world disappeared around her. This place, this town, had been her entire life. She would miss it too much. Home, family, memories were her life, and she wasn’t so willing to let that go. Moving away from home sounded like a dream to an eighteen year old girl, but could she really do that when she wasn’t ready? The world would wait until she was ready.


This prompt comes from Writer’s Digest. You have discovered what appears to be an ordinary room. But as soon as you enter the room, time stops for you. When you leave the room, time picks up right where you left off. What do you use this room for?

This would be a library full of endless bookshelves with books of every kind. All I ever want to do is read and write. There simply isn’t enough time in a day to read as much as I’d like to. I have so many books that I need to read and simply don’t, because there’s always something else that needs to be done. This room would be full of fictional stories, history books, writing prompts, nonfiction, or anything that could inspire me to write.

Reading has always been my escape. When I curl up with a book, I can feel the presence of reality slip away. The characters become real, the places, and the emotions that I feel in that moment. But I don’t get to do it enough. If I had a room that could stop time, and allow me to read as much as I wanted without missing anything, I’d be spending most of my time frozen in that room.

Mirror, Mirror

This prompt comes from What if your mirror started talking to you? What might the mirror say?

“Don’t be afraid. Come closer. Take a good long look. Compliment yourself. I shouldn’t have to do if for you.”

On some level, I think we’re all a little afraid of the mirror. Really, I think we’re afraid of what we’ll see in the mirror. I try to avoid it as much as I can. I spend so much time telling myself that I don’t care what other people think. It’s true, for the most part. I don’t wear makeup. I rarely wear dresses. I wear my hair down 95% of the time. I dress for comfort, and I tell myself that it’s enough. Most of the time, it is. Of course, that doesn’t stop me from running my fingers through my hair when someone starts talking to me.

But even though I can go out in public dressed in a sweatshirt, tennis shoes and a messy bun, I hate looking in the mirror and discovering that it’s all I’m going to see. I don’t care what others think, but on some level, I care about what I think. If my mirror could talk to me, it would try to boost my self-esteem, telling me that I shouldn’t worry. Yet, somehow, I think that reassurance would only make me avoid the mirror more. I don’t take compliments well. I don’t even like the idea of a fictional compliment, such as my mirror doing so. So I avoid it when I can. But when I do look in the mirror, it’s brief. I always manage a sigh, knowing it’s as good as it’s going to get, even when I know I could try harder. I simply don’t want to try harder, because I’m not here to impress anyone.

Some days I wish I wasn’t even trying to impress myself.

Never Forget

Today’s prompt is in memory of the September 11th attacks on the World Trade Center.

I was only in the fourth grade. We were sitting in our classroom, when one of the staff members entered the room and told my teacher to turn on the television, because the North Tower of the World Trade Center had been hit. We watched in horror as the news reported the awful attack and witnessed the South Tower getting struck. I remember the feeling of dread, the feeling of sadness for all the people that had just died. But I was only in the fourth grade, and I couldn’t understand why it happened. I couldn’t even understand the depth of sadness and fear our country felt.

Since then, I have visited the site of the World Trade Center multiple times. I went in 2009, when the place was under construction and the aftermath was still very real. It was the first time I truly felt the weight of what happened, seeing it before my eyes.

I went back to visit the memorial, while the One World Trade Center was being built. It was overwhelming to be there, but the sight of the new tower looked promising. This summer, I had the experience of visiting the memorial again and I finally understood the magnitude of what happened. At the base of the South Tower, that I had once watched crumble, I read the names of the victims and felt this deep sense of loss. I finally understood. The images of the television screen in my fourth grade classroom came to mind and I could almost see the chaos on the streets before me. Chaos that once happened where I stood. I was overwhelmed, and I finally understood that depth of emotion. It took me seventeen years, but I finally felt what the sheltered walls of a little girl’s mind kept from me.

From there, I went up to the top of the One World Trade Center. With the island of Manhattan below me, I felt like I had accomplished something, that we had accomplished something. I had seen the site at its worst, with nothing but destruction, and I had seen the site from 102 stories in the air, rising above that memory of destruction. We have come so far. We have rebuilt, and that feeling of unity and understanding can be felt at the memorial.

This tragic event still sits with us to this day, and I am grateful for the journey I have been on, that has led me to fully mourn as a little girl. Today is a day to reflect, to remember those we lost, to pray for their families, to honor the heroes that picked up our broken pieces, and to remember that we are united.

Never Forget.


This was a prompt I have received by someone I know. Write a poem about an emotion without stating the emotion.


Air stops lingering 

In the lungs

Forcing its way





Barely touching the sides

As if staying 

Will trap it


Heart beats faster 

Against a cell of bones

Asking to be heard with 

Every beat of protest




Rhythm increasing


Fingers tremble 

Out of control

Fighting to grasp



The world spinning

The mind fuzzy

As if everything was 



Stomach turning

Chest tightening

Words lost

On a tied tongue


Noise fading

Darkness consuming


A system faltering


This prompt comes from Write about flavors and tastes or a favorite spice of yours.

The wonderful thing about my favorite flavor is that it only happens part of the year, not even part of the year, a couple months out of the year. I hate when it’s gone, but the moment it’s put back on the shelves, I remember why I’m glad pumpkin only happens in the fall.

I can’t grow tired of the flavor, because as soon as I’ve had too much, it’s not there anymore. I miss It when it’s away. But there’s more than that. Pumpkin tastes like everything fall. I love the fall. Warm sweaters, crisp air, the color of leaves, bonfires, and hot chocolate. The list is long. And the flavor of pumpkin reminds me that it’s all temporary. Before long, the snow hits the ground, and after it warms up again, we’re so hot, we can’t wait for cooler temperatures. The cycle repeats again and again, and I look forward to it every single time..

I know it sounds cheesy to be like everyone else and love the fall and to love pumpkin, but there’s just something about it that makes me happy. Pumpkin is a flavor I learned to love as I got older, because I refused to try it when I was younger, but I appreciated it that much more, because I realized how much I missed out on. Just like the fall reminds us that everything is temporary, like those glorious days of summer. I don’t really know if that’s why I love the fall. I don’t really even know if my love for pumpkin is that deep, like I just suggested it was, or if it really does just taste good.

Handwritten Notes

This prompt comes from for poets and writers. “Write a personal essay about how your own handwriting has changed from childhood, through adolescence and adulthood. What memories are brought to mind when looking at your old handwriting? Perhaps try handwriting the first draft of your essay to help connect back into this practice.”

When I was a child, even I couldn’t read my own handwriting. It was a mess. Ididn’tputspacesbetweenmywords and although I tried hard to write my letters neatly, it just couldn’t be done. It didn’t change much as I grew older. Because I knew my teachers struggled with the lack of spacing, I did manage to correct that problem. More legible, but still difficult to read.

When we started learning cursive, things only got more complicated. I loved writing in cursive, because I thought it looked pretty, but it became even more difficult to read my writing. I may as well have been leaving no spaces between my words. Even when I did use print, I made some of my letters loopy like cursive letters. I remember my mom commenting on the tails of the letter t and the way I formed a loop under the g. I didn’t change it though. I thought my half cursive style was unique for me, and I didn’t want to be like everyone else.

When technology became a thing, we all stopped writing. My stories scribbled in journals were typed, notes turned into IM messages,  letters turned into text messages, and homework assignments were typed. I suppose some of the teachers thought it was easier than deciphering the poor handwriting of a high school student.

On the occasions that I did write, I stopped taking the time to make it look decent, even though it never was, and I just wrote. No fancy looping, just a mess. I didn’t. I could read it (for the most part) and that was the important thing. Not much has changed since then. I can barely read my writing. In comparison to my sister’s perfect handwriting, I look like an eight year old wrote in my notebooks. And unless someone else is reading it, this doesn’t bother me so much. I apologize to others but never to myself, because I know my handwriting will never compare to my sister’s handwriting, and that’s okay.

We’re all unique. Our hands aren’t meant to copy one another, because they each belong to individual people with individual talents. My handwriting is not perfect, but it never was, and the little girl with the curvy letters would be okay with that, so I should be too.