About Me

A national, collaborative web-based art project that explores the themes in the film SHORT TERM 12 through creative work by fans and supporters. Tag photos with #shortterm12project to share via Instagram and Twitter, submit directly on this tumblr (see: upper right corner), or email hilary@longshotfactory.com with your submission.

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If I Was a Writer (I am Not a Writer) / Poem for Daddy


If I was a writer, you would know that whenever I see your face,

millions of words swarm within me,

But I am unable to write those lines

the lines that you are so deserving of—because I am not a writer.

If I was a writer, you would see journals filled up to the last page with words, not half empty ones

with only traces of what were once words to be, but I am not a writer.

If I was a writer, you would be able to see right through my façade

you would see the pain, the pain present in my words, my thoughts, my actions,

but I am not a writer.

You cannot see these things in me because the “fragile, handle with care” label has faded away

and all that’s left is my vulnerable self.

If I was a writer, I would be able to describe the look of his dead eyes,

the eyes that were once so full of life,

the body that looks more like a sign of relief,

rather than a body that has suffered from years of ache

that was too hard for him to take.

But a body is not a soul and a soul is not a body,

just as we’ve seen through Christ.

So, if the soul is gone,

but the body is still here,

what does that say about death?

Death is not the inconceivable end—

a part of your soul lives on in those people you trust.

Not only your soul,

but your eyes are now mine

And you live in me

as I live in you.

If I was a writer,

I would dedicate this poem to you.

I am a writer

and this is for you, Daddy.


                     —Kelsey Stone

Wearing My Mama's Shoe

  • Taomi Ray


When my mom left my life for almost 20 years due to incarceration, and my dad was uncertain about paternity and acted as if he did not want me, my mind whirled across the universe until it felt free. Then the revolution began; I wrote my way way out of the pain and heartache of abandonment. I wrote from my soul and that, in itself, made me whole. Submitted by Taomi Ray.

  • 215 plays


how many arms can a tree extend

out to the sky

as a saving gesture


leaving to the ground

a patchwork of textures

the subtle shades of shadows

          with white light climbing past them


a multitude of fingers

linger in the heat

to ripen and flower


a gift from the sky

to protect the fingers

of the tree whose arms

          spring forward in a moment

                   of unconscious pleasure


                             —by Patrick McConnell