Untitled, by Holly P.

He sat simply, long legs frayed at the edges following with dirty running shoes. His hands folded in front of him and staring out the window. A small frown played upon his features without appearing on his lips. “It’ll be ok, I’ll always be here.” He said his voice soothing not bothering to take his eyes from the window. Had he known I was there? He smelled like soap, nothing special but no one else would smell like it. His tee-shirt held no slogan, his stance had no substance. Don’t bother wondering what he’s thinking, he thinks the simple things. What’s for dinner, I have work to do. The light grayness of the walls simplified him. Little furniture adorned the room, a bed, a light, a bookshelf and a chair. All the same light brown. How can one be so? His hair cut short, his face little color or show of laughter wrinkles. The clock ticks 7 he goes to work. Clock ticks 5, he comes home. No time for play, foolish games, No time the world will surely end quite soon. He does not want what you have, he does not wish for change. Day by Day, it begins and ends, the simple life endures.

Holly P. is a hair standing on edge; tripping over people tripping over shoe laces and face planting teenager who’s out of place and wears jeans covered in paint too often. She’ll always be a writer because she can never seem to pull the right words out of her brain at the right time. With out writing down her thoughts she’d probubly loose her mind.