A fragile camellia whose vitality has been buried,

A fiery heart blanketed by snow,

A trapped soul.

Bleak,

But with a will to flourish.

I seek bonds with people,

Endless laughter brings me smiles.

Bright smiles blossom and overtake the gloom.

Yet from revelry at times, I must retreat,

I find solace in songs,

Rhyme soothes my bustling soul.

I replenish my body in solitude,

In the absence of connections,

In shadow, and in light

After winter, in spring's embrace, I'll flower once more.

First crush

Ethereal glow caused by moonlight,

Wandering wind, fragrant flowers, lushing leaves.

Her heart was beating fast — 

a thousand butterflies flapping wings,

The residual warmth on her face lingered,

her head was buzzing with dizziness.

A large bouquet of white and dyed-purple roses,

And many origami purple paper cranes.

She lies in total darkness,

The unknown is thrilling.

Music, prom, sunset, amusement parks, books, popcorn, beach.

Ice cream melting on tongues, hand in hand watching fireworks,

Giggling and laughing,

Until it's gone.

Sobbing, screaming, scowling, 

The agony and bliss intertwined.

Until she falls apart thinking: WHY?

Time heals as the night breathes softly,

Under the scattered stars,

Final flecks of grief glittering on her lashes, 

She’s waiting for the next unknown.

Pen

“the world, pain, the earth, the mother, the dessert, honor, poverty, summer, the sea,”

Wrote Albert Camus.

His top ten favorite things.

Pain and Poverty.

People seek for pain.

Great literary works are products of pessimism or misfortune.

Aloof, romantic, heroic artists know how to contemplate the complexity.

So am I,

I sensed the scared spirituality in countless moments,

Moments special to my eyes only.

A starving child’s cry in dying light,

The fall of the last autumn leaf. 

I can't calm down, I'm always restless, there are too many things in my life,

Impulsive hand giving shape to fleeting forms. 

Yet the main thread of my life is not to let my emotions rule my world.

I am always in a hurry,

impetuous and busy.

And so I write.

Yes, they confound me - poverty, pain, the world - 

I am also a writer because of those things,

Not because they are inspirational ideas, but to help me cope.

Pain is rooted within,

Writing probes the malaise,

meticulous about the neglected and minutiae.

Perplexity and tribulation, 

All I can do is hold onto a pen.