So I need a little more practice with writing. I am unfortunately fourteen years old, so I am not too skilled with grammar yet, but my writing style varies a lot. In this short practice work, I use a mix of poetry and writing. It's a little experiment, and It's not totally complete either. (I still think it's a bit shallow). I didn't really proofread it, since I'm not really publishing it. I don't use a lot of fancy words either, so reading demographic would most likely be younger people. (warning: probably contains fragments)

"Untitled" by Makkeah T.R

In a dark, dreary room, a man sat. His darkened eyes stared at the cold, bright screen that glowed drearily from its place among numerous papers. He lacked a certain sense of precision in his work, due to lack of sleep; but his passion remained.

Hours he slaved on as he tried hard to ignore the harsh, December winds knocking at his door. The man fought against the drowsiness that slowly enveloped his mind, wondering if his years of work will be worth the cost of the glorious bliss of sleep. Would he awaken one day to find himself unmotivated to finish his life long’s work? Then, the questions arose.

His mind scattered. The thoughts he was then plagued with were not positive in the slightest. The man was drowning in his own despair; the house was his grave. He thought nothing at that moment could pull him from the depths of his own mind.

Outside, rain poured heavily against the battered old windows of the house, adding a mysterious sort of darkness to the already cold and unwelcoming complex. Life in the building was not always this way. It was known as the unfortunate fate of the Willsby house.

If you had been to the dreary house years ago, it would be different. A long time ago, it was brighter. Curtains drawn, fire kindled. In the most pleasing manner was a glorious personal library filled with encyclopedias documenting every walk of life. Rich, vibrant gardens overflowing with healthy flowers that matched the colors of the rainbow. The house’s kitchen was warm and always smelled of sweet pastries.

Two young boys played on a sunny, summer day, long, long ago. A childish tune from a worn music box was played repeatedly throughout their days. Those days all seemed to fade away. They still play on, only in memory. But this was reality, and the man, emotionally separated from his brother, now sat in that bleak, dim room on that cold day in December.

A faint, sinister light appeared at the door. Bleary figures encroached upon the old metal entryway. In a scuffle, the man cursed under his breath, grabbing numerous papers and stuffing them into a worn bookbag.

A knock.

The low voice of an old man spoke.“Mr.Welsby?”

Another knock.

“We are here to collect money.” It commanded from the other side of the door. “It’s long overdue.”

“We haven't a lot of patience, nowadays.” a thin raspy voice chimed, whilst fiddling with his handheld metal lantern. The flame burning inside on the stick of candlewax sent a warm light across the entry of the door.

Knock knock.

“We know you’re in there!” The raspy voice commented again as the impatient knocking turned into rapid and unceasing beating. He struck against the door with his rusty lantern, following an incessant pattern that would surely break the metal to pieces.

The man was frantic. Hastily gathering more of his paperwork, he proceeded to slide each document into the book bag with quavering handiwork. His legs shook and shuddered underneath him and he feared they might give way any moment. Sparing not a single moment to peer out the window, he placed the book bag as steadily as he could into a pitch black briefcase.

“Open the door!”

Everything was spinning around him. The frightening glow from the candle sending a spotlight over the side of the house seeped through the curtains.
He needed to breathe as everything around seemed to swallow him up. The walls were too close for comfort; he couldn't move, and the knocking only became more frantic each second.

Outside the old man spoke again, this time in a hushed tone. “I will give you until the count of five to open the door and give us the money.”

And with those words began the horrible mantra. “Five.”

Inside, he snapped out of his state of doubt and bolted to the mantle. Above the unlit fireplace laid a thick, black journal. His eyes remained on the rugged leather cover in a solemn moment of hesitation, before sending the journal flying onto his desk.

“Four.”

The chanting was like an evil incantation. He could barely breathe as he trifled through various drawers before befalling upon a small box of matches.

(Unfinished, but basically what happens is he burns the journal and the debt collectors leave.)

His unmoving shadow, cast upon the wall in a charcoal hue only reminded him that he was not attempting to run away. No matter how hard he tried, the man knew that he would never be able to leave the house. It was his prison - his own burden. The house was where his work began, and in that house, he knew it had to end.

Hi! First of all, you're amazing being able to write such a nice text at only fourteen years old. I think that you are already really skilled and found a writing style in which you move comofortably and know how to built up tension.
I liked the way you devided the paragraphs, making it more interesting and easier to read. Furthermore, I'm impressed how you combined structure with your writing stlye that you described as a mix of poetry and writing. For example, this part got to me: "The man was drowning in his own despair; the house was his grave. He thought nothing at that moment could pull him from the depths of his own mind". The feeelings and atmosphere seem so well described to me that I could really feel the tension and curiousity rise inside of me.
I really like the flow until it got to the point of the flashback ("If you had been to the dreary house years ago, it would be different..." so on). It's not poor writing or such, in my opinion, it's very well written, but it just didn't go well for me. Like the time change kind of interrupted me getting really into that man's thoughts and feelings. (It's still a good paragraph, though.)
SO, you could say you just got a new fan. :) I would love to read the whole story with its ending! So please, I hope you'll end this story fragment and share it with us. :D
And one more wish, I hope to read more short stories or the like of you. You clearly have talent!

>>2 Thank you! I'll make sure to keep that in mind. It's time to edit that part.

I really enjoy this. It reminds me of a mix of Kafka and Poe. The structuring of the story is good, and so is the imagery. The main thing I can criticize is incredibly nit-picky of me- it's the word choice in some places.
Here's an example: rain poured heavily
When I think of pouring, I don't instantly think of rain. Rather, that's something I would associate with getting someone a drink. "Pour" and "heavy" just don't quite match up here.
So basically make sure that what you use to describe things make sense. I know, it's really nit picky of me, but I thought I might mention it anyway.

And if you're interested in sticking to this kind of genre, I suggest that you read some short stories by Franz Kafka and Edgar Allen Poe, or works by Albert Camus, Fyodor Dostoevsky, and Thomas Mann. Particularly Kafka (The Metamorphosis, In the Penal Colony, The Judgement, A Hunger Artist, etc). They could give you inspiration and basically allow you to familiarize yourself with phrasing and certain words. Reading is a great way to further your writing.

Great work, keep it up :)