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I was asked to write an essay on a topic called growing up. I decided to make it a little bit more funny and less essay-ish. Enjoy it. It's good to read it to children...they will understand me.
By Amber Sparks
poems that i wrote when i was young and not quite ready to write lol but some of them are moving i was 19 and younger when i wrote these
Poetry | Updated Jul 7, 2012 | Reads: 3 | Comments: 0 | Likes: 0
Just how hard can it be to drop your kid off at college?
Short Story | Updated Jun 27, 2012 | Reads: 31 | Comments: 0 | Likes: 0
Grace and Gordie. Mom and son. And a sudden threat to that status as the father suddenly reappears wanting the son. Grace has a plan. But first - meet Grace. And Gordie. And Gord, his father. And The Athena. And Ellie and her son James. And Mr. Pitt, owner and manager and creator of The...
A child of divorce caught in the middle, scared, lonely and just wants to be heard. This child doesn't want to be in the middle of the arguing, but wants simply to be left out of the adult issues and be loved by the parents.
Poetry | Updated May 6, 2012 | Reads: 30 | Comments: 0 | Likes: 0
By Pablo Sacristan
Two ideas. That wars and battles are not romantic, and that we can all do something to bring about peace.
By Pablo Sacristan
Some things you canâ€™t leave in the countryside because they do harm to the environment and living things.
A father proves just how deep his love for his daughter truly runs.
By Story Spinner
A reminiscence of the vital role Mom played (and continues to play) in the lives of her children. At the time of the poem, she is turning 89 and she enjoys her life--past, present, and future.
A poem for my father about his presence in my memories, and how I've associated him over the years with different small things, such as the sound of his boots, his cough, his smell, the roughness of his hands, etc. If you like this poem, also see
Experience in parenting
Miscellaneous | Updated Dec 28, 2011 | Reads: 12 | Comments: 0 | Likes: 0
By Gideon Elrod
Inspired by actual events.
Most peole tend to believe that we turn into our parents. This mother-to-be hopes that is not the case.
By Lorna Culling
Frederick was born with eyes wide open, mouth wide open, splayed and crushed, pushed and pulled. He was grabbed by the nurse and big cold hands, and he peered through a red haze to see. No more the soft warm rosy womb he adored. Now bursting into the freezing yellow he searched everywhere-...