Articles written by Brian Troyer

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About me - Brian Troyer

I'm 19 years old, just graduated high school. Writing is a hobby but I wish I did it more to get better at it. Thinking about majoring in English in college, but we'll see what God has in mind.

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Creative Writing > Poetry Poetry: Morning dew: 1 of 22

Dew is the earth's tears, Shed in remembrance of the day. Shed in longing for the light, For the warmth to stay just a little longer. As night comes and light disappears, The earth weeps. Its tears cling to the leaves like tiny beads. The moon comes and reveals the tears, Turning them into orbs of cold, white light. The eart...
Creative Writing > Poetry Poetry: Reflections: 13 of 229

Ribbons of light dance along the riverbank, An endlessly moving patchwork of an endlessly present luminescence. I tilt and turn the bent surface of the spoon, Making faces and laughing along with the disproportional other me. The snowcaps and rocky outcroppings are magnificently duplicated By the sunset laden mountain pond. ...
Creative Writing > Poetry Poetry: My everything: 1 of 16

Deep, soothing peace wells forth from my inmost being And washes over my tired spirit As Your holy hands caress my brow. Your gentle touch And the sight of Your indescribable beauty Bring absolute joy to my soul. Oh, how I have longed for the greatness of Your presence, As close and still as a scorching, humid day, Yet more ...
Creative Writing > Poetry Poetry: The fog: 1 of 13

Like a thick cloud of smoke, Fog descends on the valley. As it rolls in, it leaves behind Tiny beads on the leaves of trees and on the grass. The fog moves like a cloud of locusts, Swallowing everything in its path. As it moves, it swallows an entire forest, Tree by tree. The fog is welcome. It brings a cool dampness that th...
Creative Writing > Poetry Poetry: Mistakes: 10 of 118

The Cliche Mistake He was a chip off the old block And he had a chip on his shoulder. It could be said that he was Caught between a rock and a hard place. He had put all his eggs in one basket, He had bet the farm, He had counted his chickens before they hatched, And now he was as poor as dirt. He had found out the hard way ...
Creative Writing > Poetry Poetry: Native American prayers: 2 of 12

I crouch beneath Father Oak and silently sweep past Brother Pine, smelling the rich aroma of his needles. My moccasins quiet my steps as I creep beneath the trees- my brothers. Birds twitter happily in the branches above me, close enough to reach up and touch them. They do not see me, and I pause to enjoy their music. I move...
Creative Writing > Poetry Poetry: Snow: 46 of 184

Snow falls on the silent wood. No sound can be heard. The snowflakes keep falling, Caught up in a quiet, swirling dance, Catching moonlight and throwing it back In tiny flecks and flashes. The trees sleep, the world sleeps, But the snow continues to fall. A soft, cottony white blanket Covers the sleeping trees, The sleeping ...
Creative Writing > Poetry Poetry: My soul: 17 of 66

A Soul in the Balance A soul in the balance, A heart on a string, A mind walking the fine line Between holy and damned. Teetering, tottering, Tipping, tripping, Fighting wildly to stay upright. One misstep, a single misjudgment, And the entire apparatus crashes down. A heart falls, A mind plunges off the string, The soul lef...
Creative Writing > Short Stories Short stories: Forgiveness: 6 of 23

The Coward Nnadalo sped across the African plain, his lean, dark figure leaping over mounds of earth and small ditches like a gazelle. His long arms and legs pumped furiously, and his bare feet left small dust clouds as they hit the dry dirt, which swirled into the air with his next steps. As he ran he resembled a small, ski...
Creative Writing > Poetry Poetry: Praise: 11 of 38

I Imagine Nature Worshipping I imagine nature praising, its infinite motions I see, Fields of grass, every blade praising in its own pitch whether high or low, The bees praising their anthem as they search for flower and nectar, The creek praising in happy reverence winding through the trees, and down the hill, The cedar pra...