This is a sample of my grand daughter's writing. Remember, she was 14 at the time she wrote it.

The world is too close in us
Late and early
Caressing and dying we lay waste our powers
Little we see in grief that is ours
We have given our love away,
A bleeding death.
This demise that lays vulnerable to the lies
This hound that wails into the night,
And, is collected now, like bleeding flowers,
For this, for everything, we are discomforted,
It does not touch us,
But, still, we ask,
"How could you do this to me"?
I'd rather be a child, wrapped in a torn shirt
So that I, running on this broken land,
Could have glimpses to make me less forlorn
And, see myself rising from the sea
And hear the Gods blare comfort from a horn.