One day when I was about five years old I burst into the room to tattletale on my brother when I was stopped by a strange man with mother. The words "Get out" startled me and I ran out of the room. Later on that night my ' daddy' hit my mother with a chair. Who is my father? What is a father is the more accurate question. The first 8 years of my life I called one person 'daddy', but I did not have warm loving feelings. That man was the first and the last man I ever called da

I find it beyond ironic that just when I had to write a piece on creativity, my words left. They packed their bags and hurried away en masse leaving just enough stragglers so I wouldn’t be embarrassed as I bumbled through my days. Have you ever experienced that zombie-like state that exists when you lose the ability to create? You wake up one day and life isn’t the same as it was before. The colours aren’t as vibrant … food doesn’t taste as good. It’s not death but… it’s a st