I us...

I used to write a lot.I never thought I was any good at it - and I still don't. Especially when I had such talented friends to compare to. Sometimes, I just had important things to say, and so the words just came out right.I have some of my old writing I think I'd like to post.You are all NOT allowed to laugh, although constructive criticism is heartily appreciated.But I have a question.What do you all think about posting stories/poems written by other people who's permissions I cannot get before posting them? I would, of course, give the credit to them, although I'm thinking by using initials or something, seeing as I'm sure many of them wouldn't appreciate me putting their full names on public domain. Some of them are really really good, and I know some of you would appreciate them...In the meantime, here's a poem I wrote in high school. This one I actually really like, tho it's very depressing. It's an interesting story how I wrote it; I was in French class, and was allowed to go to the library to study because I was a bit ahead, and already knew what she was teaching. So there I was, sitting in the library, and I fell asleep. At least, I assume that's what happened. When I woke up ten minutes later, this poem was written in my handwriting, on my notes. I guess I wrote it - I asked around and I didn't get up during that time to pick up any books, and no one came near me. *shrug* It was weird. And it's a truly strange poem, at least for me. Hope you all like it...or at least pretend you like it, anyway :)The CrossIt is a harsh, barren field.No grass, no trees, just an occasional weedthat escaped the wind.One single, lone cross draws the eye -a grave site.When one looks closerone seesthat there is no inscription.No name, no date.Just one lonely man, woman, childburied in a frozen desert.One wonders sometimeshow anyone could be loved so littleto be left here, alone.But then you think, andwhat does it really matter anyway.At least here there is peace,with only the sound of the windin the shadows of the treesthat aren't there.Death is everywhere here.The cross, the spirits of the treesthat once were abundant.Even in the live weeds there is deathas the harsh desert slowly stranglesall the life in it.Everything dies here.And one leaves, one knowyou can't ever really leave - but you'll never come back.