I wonder why

Every day of my life

Is not spent

Sitting and

Staring

At you.

Will you speak

So freely

And feel your

Heart pound

Like a child’s

As he runs and jumps

Through his field

Of careless dandelions?

And tries to catch

The setting sun?

Cradle it

Within

Open Arms?

When he first 

Discovers

That elusive experience

Of being

Open and true

And alive?

Will you let me in?

Will you let me feel

That heartbeat

Through the pulse

Racing down into

Your fingers

As you relate

Every feeling that

For so long

Caused you such

Intense fear?

Some days

We may walk

And talk

Rather than sit

And stare;

To me,

All that matters

Is that you

Are here.

To me,

All that matters

Is that you feel

Careless

As the dandelion field,

Noble

As the sun.

All that matters

To me

Is that you feel

Alive

Like the young boy

And open,

Like his arms.

2012

Home

You’re still traipsing up the stairs,

Still giggling in my kitchen,
Your lips still linger in the doorway,
As your blush continues
To color my heart.

They’d have never called us loves
But they’d probably call us fools

To leave a hopeless home behind

In hopes of building one anew,

I doubt I could have lived
With your last burning impression
A stolid, stifled glance,
I could not endure a world
After your short-lived adoration,

How is it that your love could
Make me feel more
Like me?

How is it that your love could
Make me feel more
Than me?

Fate be fickle.

Fate ain’t kind.

Fate doth tickle

Down your spine.

"Home is underrated,"
I’d say before I knew,

Before I knew the feeling


Of being home

With you.

"I was here, this is what I thought, this is what I perceived. This is my signature, this is my name."

Every book ever printed has one thing in common: it is the product of a mind that could only fabricate such a work after having lived the author’s particular life. This is not to say that all authors write about personal experience, but suffice it to say that each book is influenced by its author, and each author, by personal experience.

An author is like a father, settling his son upon bended knee, saying, “This is the world as I know and understand it, and this is how it has made me the man I am today, this is what it has taught me. Now, allow me to share it with you.”

Essentially, a narrative is a transcendent voice. The experiences that shape any writer, although often disguised through the voices of fictitious characters, are revealed through literature, and in recording the deepest impressions of human consciousness, books become indelible photographs, capturing a moment, a person: an individualistic voice. Essentially, books are photographs that, miraculously, never fade.

Every book ever printed in the English language has one thing in common: it is comprised of infinitely differing combinations of the same 26 letters. I have found, through exploring and experimenting with those letters, that there is so much to uncover about the world, and ultimately, that no one will experience it quite like I do. No two experiences or exposures are the same, and in that I have found the imperativeness of pursuing my creative voice.

Ultimately, not only is it my passion, but also my responsibility, to say, “I was here, this is what I thought, this is what I perceived. This is my signature, Ellie Mitchell is my name.”

2012