WARNING: Very, very dark. Nothing detailed, but still.

You have been warned.

White hair and red eyes:
the testimony of a phenomena
feared and fraught.
Innocent beings cursed from birth
imagefor no reason but to be different.
Scorned and scarred,
abused and misused
for being born.
Unique beings
twisted into monsters
by shallow minds and hollow hearts.
Beautiful bastards
wrongly mistaken for black sheep.
Brilliant beasts
hated for being misunderstood.

Red hair and white eyes,
bleak and colorless,
void of their once beauty,
never again to feel worldly pain.
Do you not see the horror
of what you’ve done?
Do you not care that an innocent life
has been unrightfully
stolen from this world?
Do you not feel shame?
Do you not wallow in your filthy guilt?
Your wicked ways
of hatred and uniformity
The systems you so regally uphold
can only destroy.
This unified world
drowns in uniformity.

*(Note: I have a really dark side, if you hadn’t noticed. Basically, it was late at night and I read some story that said something about an albino girl being made fun of for her looks and eventually taking her own life. For some reason, it really upset me, and this poem was the result. I won’t apologize.)

Picture source: pinterest

My poetry belongs to me. All poems under the category “Poetry by Me” are mine. Use of my poetry without my permission is prohibited. If you wish to use any my poetry for any reason, ask me for permission first.

Finding Your Voice

Don’t try to copy others. Learn from others, but write as yourself.


Good morning, beautiful writers!!!

To begin today’s lesson, I would like you all to click on the link Poetry by Me and read a poem or two that I’ve written, or click on the link Fiction by Me and read one or so of the short fictions I’ve written.

Before you ask, no, this is not an attempt to get more people to read my writing. I actually have a point to this.

You back? Okay, time for a bit of analysis. What did you notice about the style of whatever you read? What did you notice about word choice? Sentence fluency? Literary techniques? Maybe it all seemed a bit dark?

imageWhat I’m trying to get you to notice about my writing is my voice. When it comes to writing, everyone has their own, unique voice. It’s created and formed over the years through reading and trying to reflect the voices of others until, eventually, it becomes something distinct and specific to you.

Take mine for example. My voice changes somewhat depending on what I’m trying to create, but I generally write with two very distinct tones: one when I write creatively, one when I write casually (a.k.a. when I blog).

With creative writing, I almost always carry on some sort of dark quality and tend to use more imagery to tell the story. Unless I’m writing a full-on novel, I tend to stay away from dialogue and use thoughts more than words.

However, when it comes to casual writing, I prefer to stay much more nonchalant. I choose to write like I speak, even though it might come across as rather foolish. At the end of the day, my main goal is to entertain, not to sound cool or all-knowing.

Though these two tones are completely different, they’re both the same voice. They evolved from a mixture of other voices that I tried to reflect when I was younger. For example, my greatest idol is Poe, so a large part of my voice reflects his. However, it’s obvious that my writing is not his because it’s also picked up notes of other voices, such as Uncle Rick, C.S. Lewis, and Shakespeare.

What I’m trying to say is, everyone, writer or not, has their own, unique voice. When writing, you should always stay true to your own voice. Don’t try to be someone you’re not. Your best pieces of work will evolve from you being yourself.


If you don’t know what your voice is, then practice writing. Find prompts and write something based off of them. Whatever you write, don’t compare it to someone else’s writing. Don’t even reflect off of it. When you finish your piece, turn the page and start on a new piece.

After you’ve written ten or so pieces, you can go back and read through them. Don’t criticize your voice, and don’t try to change it. The more you write, the more it will develop into something distinctly you.

And once your voice is distinctly you, you’ll finally be a true writer.

Picture sources: WriterAccess

The Art of Writing


Sincerely, Hope

Dear World and Everyone In It,
This is who I am.
Accept it.

*Note: I started this blog because of my Creative Writing class in the Spring of 2016. It was an assignment to start and maintain a blog. As a part of this, we had to write and upload certain posts. You’ll recognize them as the posts that seem somewhat out of place.

This was one of those posts. In fact, this was the main assignment for our blogging unit: an “About Me” post. It’s much more difficult than you think. Surprisingly enough, I’m a very uninteresting person with a very bad memory. Not to mention, not many events in my life were very noteworthy, and I didn’t want my post to be all about traveling.

So, I decided to play with the idea and make it unique. The result was this. If you plan to read beyond this note, I would just like to warn you that it doesn’t really focus on the usual “Who am I” stuff. Rather, it’s written as a letter to the world where I tell it to stop judging me because this is me.

You won’t learn about my likes and dislikes in this post, or anything like that. Instead, you’ll see the true me in the writing itself. The way it’s written. What I say about myself. If you really want to know who I am, then this is your best shot. Thank you for visiting my blog, and good luck.

Dear World and Everyone in it,

You don’t understand me.

You don’t know me, not in the slightest, and it seems to me that you don’t care to know me. You don’t care who I am, just who you want me to be, who you think I should be. So, I have one thing to say to you.


When asked to describe myself in one word, that’s the one I choose.

Not “hope” because my name is Hope and name puns are soooooo funny! (I hope you caught that sarcasm). Not “oblivious” because, according to you, I miss everything. Not “hippy” because I like flowers and there’s nothing to me other than flowers. Definitely not “immature” because you think I’m a child and should be treated as such. And don’t ever say it’s “stupid,” because I am not stupid.

The second time I gave my hair to Locks of Love.

But at the same time, I can’t accurately say that I’m anything else. I am not always “wise,” as a few of you see me. I am not always “loyal,” though I’ve proven myself to be many times over. I am not always “selfless,” no matter how much I give. I am not always “mature,” or “creative,” or “brave.” I am not always anything.

At the end of the day, it depends on who you ask.

I am iridescent. According to Google, iridescent means “showing luminous colors that seem to change when seen from different angles.” And trust me, there isn’t a word in the world that describes me better than that.

(If that doesn’t make sense, check out my poem Iridescent. I don’t know if it will help, but you never know. I wrote it based on this idea.)

You see, somehow, every person — or group of people, in some cases — who has ever known me, you included, has formed a different and unique version, or perspective, of who I am. No two perspectives match, and not a single one is spot on.

Now you see why I’m so fascinated with the idea of perspectives.

Little old me, riding the Griffin statue that I claimed was my pet…

I usually use these different perspectives to hide myself, to keep anyone from figuring me out. The real me isn’t always someone I want people to see. In fact, when I was younger, I was ashamed of the real me. I was ashamed because of you. Because you never accepted the real me. Because I was too crazy, too thoughtful, too different, and you didn’t want anything to do with me. Did I scare you? Did you see me as a threat? Little old me, just trying to find a way in this place, a threat

And I guess that’s when I created my windows and walls, when I started hiding parts of myself. I suppose I never managed to hide the same things every time, because all of this happened. But you can’t blame me for all of this, because it’s your fault.

So, I’m giving you the chance to redeem yourself.

All I’ve ever truly wanted is acceptance. Not as someone else, but as myself.

In the hopes that I might finally be free, I am choosing to be vulnerable. Right here and now, I am opening myself up to you. I am giving you a great deal of my trust, trust that I rarely give. Do not abuse it. It’s more fragile than you could ever know.

This is who I am.




Dear World and Everyone In It,

I’ll give you some friendly advice.

My brother and I attempting to paint a new house.

Within these letters, I’ve included pictures. For the most part, they don’t seem to fit in. They seem random.

However, you should already know, a picture’s worth a thousand words.

If you want to figure out the depth of who I am, pay attention to the pictures. They tell my story, my real story, the story of me beyond what I can say and beyond a pretty face.

Because, I promise you. I am much, much more than a pretty face.

Get it? Got it?





Dear World and Everyone In It,

I am a Highly Sensitive Person.

Yes, HSP (which is the abbreviation for it) is a real thing. It occurs in around 20% of humans and has been found in over 100 other different species. It is an innate trait, and it is 100% me.

If you want proof that I am HSP, I almost starting bawling in the middle of my creative writing class when I learned about it. Yes, bawling. There were tears in my eyes and my throat was tight, and I had to take several deep breaths to hold it all in.

From ipone 271
Me modeling a giant flower at a store.

Why was I so emotional, you may ask? Simple. I’m an incredibly emotional person, so I was already on the brink of a breakdown because I couldn’t figure out how to explain who I am. Then this happened, and my world was basically turned inside out because it matched me perfectly.

It took so many things about me that I couldn’t explain to other people and summarized them all into three simple words. Years of trying to figure out why I react to things so extremely, why I notice details other people never notice, why the five senses impact me so deeply… All explained in three words.

Highly Sensitive Person.

This also explains why I see so much beauty in everything.

Me modeling a fantastic yellow life vest and rubber boots in Ecuador.

It is important to note that not all HSPs are emotional roller coasters. Most are far more easy-going than me. At least, I think that’s the case… I’m guessing I’m just on the more extreme side of things.

And, quite obviously, HSP is not the equivalent of an introvert, seeing as I’m an introvert-extrovert mix.

My creative writing teacher, who is also HSP, was the one who introduced me to this term. She pulled up this blog called and talked to the class about it a bit, then gave us some free time to explore the site ourselves if we so pleased. Obviously, I chose to explore it.

I highly suggest you check out this blog, especially if you think you might be HSP. Seriously, it could change your entire world.

It changed mine.




Dear World and Everyone In It,

I am a perfectionist.

It’s not something I can control. I just want everything to be right, to be the best it can possibly be.

Me on Fort Myers Beach, a split second before my grand wipe-out.

Is that such a crime?

I admit, sometimes I get carried away. I spend hours on a single project that should only take a few minutes, just because I think it could be a little bit better if I change a few things.

Sometimes I succeed. Sometimes I don’t.

I actually had about a dozen panic attacks while trying to plan this post and write it. I think this is my seventh draft started from scratch. I won’t even try to count how many times I revised each draft… But honestly, it turned out better than it would have if I had stuck to the first draft, so who can say my perfectionist tendencies are bad?

Though at the end of the day, it doesn’t matter what you think or even what I think. I can’t help being a perfectionist. It’s not something I can control or change about myself. It’s just a part of me.

It’s likely that my perfectionist qualities developed from my childhood. My parents have always pushed me to have the absolute best grades, and though that’s not a bad thing, it’s been… hard, to say the least. My entire life, I was faced with the constant questions of why do you have a B in this class? Why is it not an A? What are you going to do to bring it up?

Our family photo on Fort Myers Beach.

Yes, it’s been frustrating.

But no, I’m not mad at my parents for it.

They were only doing what they thought best. And honestly, I’m glad they raised me this way. I think I’m a better person because of it. I never settle for mediocre and always strive for the best, which is a way of life everyone should follow.

Actually, if I’m to be mad at anyone, it should be you. You who see this part of me as negative (Psychology Today is the perfect example), you who tell me that I should feel shame.

You, who taught me to hate myself because I want to be the best I can be.

Thank you, world.

And you wonder why I hide.




Dear World and Everyone In It,

I am Attention Deficit.

Not stupid. Not oblivious. Not immature.

My brother fast asleep with his giant tiger. That’s me in the background.

In fifth grade, I was diagnosed with Attention Deficit Disorder, ADD for short. By now, it’s probably more like ADHD, but being diagnosed with ADHD wouldn’t do anything more for me. I’d still be taking the same exact medicine, still be living the same exact life, just with a different term to define my disorder.

Disorder. How I hate that word.

I won’t go into detail about this. I already posted an entire story that goes through my life before and after being diagnosed with ADD. You can read it here.

The door to one of my past rooms, which we tore out during one of our moves.

Otherwise, you just need to know that it isn’t stupidity that makes me slow. It’s the constant noise that fills the world, that’s always ringing in my ears and drawing my attention away.

It isn’t obliviousness that keeps me from noticing the big picture. It’s all the little details in the world that I notice and focus in on, but you seem to be oblivious to.

And it isn’t immaturity that causes me to act like a child. It’s my mind running in a million places at once, unable to focus on anything, yet focusing on everything, all at the same time.

It’s not easy being me. So just… Stop acting like there’s something wrong with me. Please. There’s nothing wrong with me, my mind just works differently than everyone else’s.

I’m just… me. So stop judging me and try to understand who I am for once.




Dear World and Everyone In It,

This is who I am.

From ipone 022
My best friend and I posing in our formal attire.

Accept it.

I’m tired of trying to be someone else,

so I’m just gonna be myself.

Say whatever you want to say.

I don’t care.

At the end of the day,

this is me.

Not the person you say I should be.

You only ever saw me through windows,

while walls blocked most of your view.

You don’t know me.

You’ve never known me.

So stop trying to control me

because it won’t work.

Not anymore.

I’m done pretending.

It’s time I stepped outside

Honestly, I don’t even know…

and let the world see me

for me.

I’m proud to be me.

I’m proud to be unique.

I’m ready to be vulnerable.

So ready or not,

here I come.

This is the real me.




The Death Grip

The apparently strange and deadly way that I hold a pencil.

Everyone always comments on how I hold a pencil.

Every year, I get at least one comment. Usually, I get a comment from every teacher. Sometimes, I even get comments from students.

Either way, I always get comments.

Now, I know nearly everyone holds a pencil differently. Everyone has some sort of weird grip. But I’ve been told time and time again that mine is by far the craziest.

Don’t believe me?

Refer to the picture below.


That, my friends, is how I hold a pencil. I am, indeed, right-handed. You may notice that it’s the same grip as how one holds a violin/viola bow. That was not intentional. I didn’t learn to play the violin and viola until sixth grade. I’ve been writing like that my whole life.

Needless to say, my orchestra teacher was more than a little surprised when he realized the bow grip was the most natural thing in the world for me.

As was I.

While I was writing this post, my friend told me to name it “The Death Grip” because the way I hold a pencil is so painful. I disagree. I think it’s the only comfortable grip possible. It gives complete control, yet enough freedom to write fluently.

My handwriting may suffer because of my grip, but I can write incredibly small, so I think that makes up for all the chicken scratches.

… Okay, you know what? At least my handwriting is legible.

My elementary school teachers put up a fair fight. They told me every day how to correctly hold a pen or pencil, even moved my fingers until my grip was perfect. They told me to always write that way. I’d nod and smile.

Then they’d walk away, thinking they had won, and I’d roll my eyes and go right back to my usual pencil grip.

They eventually gave up, which I was so thankful for. Seriously, they should have realized way sooner that it was pointless. I was a bit of a rebel, and I wasn’t going to let them change how I write!

People always try to copy my pencil hold, just for fun, but they rarely succeed. I don’t understand what’s so complicated about it. It feels simple to me.

But none of that matters. I don’t mind if people think it’s strange or painful or cool. I don’t care if they want to tease me about it, nod in acceptance, or ignore it entirely.

All I care about is that it’s comfortable to me. It’s how I write, and I’m not changing that any time soon.

I’m proud to be unique.

I’m proud to be me.