I’ve always loved contrast……Maybe I’ve always loved you.You are the black to my white,The ultraviolet to my black hole,The infinite to my mortal.You are the unseen in the daylight,My bright star in the black of night…When my heart opens,When my soul awakens,My thoughts touch on youFor longer than they are supposed to…Even when I want to hide,I remember that I have forgotten how to forget you.…I don’t think I want to…❤️ ©️ Beatriz Esmer Continue reading Contrast

Your body, a symphony of stardust and ancient echoes, echoes the fierce grace of lionesses. The same cosmic forge that shaped their sinew and fire courses through your veins. You are kin to the wild, a whisper of wilderness woven into flesh. Three-quarters water, you flow like rivers—relentless, carving canyons in the bedrock of existence. Your tears, saltwater streams, sculpted mountains, and valleys. Each drop, a testament to resilience, a hymn sung by the tides. In the helix dance of your DNA, wolf genes howl. Twenty amino acids, the alphabet of life, spell out your existence. You are the poetry … Continue reading “You Are So Much More”

He holds my poems in his hands like artifacts, delicate yet distant, as if the words might crumble beneath his fingertips. He says he wants to read them, but when I tell him there is more—so much more—he does not ask to hear it. He does not ask to see the words still trembling within me. I want to unfold the letters I have hidden, to show him the ink that dared to be braver than I ever was. My notebooks know the weight of my heart better than I do; they are homes for confessions I have never spoken … Continue reading My poems

I rent dreams. Fragile and ephemeral, they arrive like whispered secrets, carried on the wings of moonlight. Each dream, a delicate vessel, holds within it the promise of possibility. Life’s FragmentsTogether, they gather the fragments of life—the laughter shared over morning coffee, the tears shed in solitude, the fleeting touch of a loved one’s hand. These dreams are custodians of memories, keepers of moments that slip through our fingers like fine sand. Seedlings of FaithAnd there, nestled within their ethereal folds, lie seedlings of faith. Tiny, resilient, they take root in the fertile soil of our hearts. We plant them … Continue reading Dreams for Rent

There are no ready-made scripts, only characters and improvised dialogues of our ups and downs. A love that blooms unexpectedly, or one that teeters on the edge of ceasing. No necessary paths, just those that serve us and those that do not. No right door, only those that swing open and those that remain stubbornly shut. Sometimes, the best choice is not to choose at all. The most profound answer may be silence—a quiet surrender to the vastness of existence. And the cure that heals us, paradoxically, lies in feeling hurt. To live fully, we must embrace the possibility of … Continue reading The Inaccuracy of Us

I was overdosing on your sorrow,Drunk on the ache that shaped your soul.Every sigh, a bitter echo,Pulling me deeper into the cold. I want to high on your feelings,Let them burn beneath my skin,Set me floating past the ceiling,A love so fierce, so paper-thin. But love was never just a fever,Or a high we chase in vain.It lives between the quiet shivers—A whisper soft, a sweet refrain. ©️ Beatriz Esmer Continue reading Overdose

Happy Abril! Within the quiet walls of my hermitage, I find solace. Every wind that brushes against my window, every delicate flower that blooms in my garden, they all whisper poetry to my soul. The walls of my mind, sturdy and unyielding, insist that happiness lies within these familiar confines. They tell me love is not essential for survival, that solitude can be its own kind of sanctuary. If only I could leave my mind behind, step into the unknown, and embrace the whispers of Abril. © Beatriz Esmer Continue reading Whispers of Abril

Esta é a história da mulher que restou depois do fim. Uma mulher que morreu sem morrer, depois que o amor se foi e, junto, levou a vida, deixando-a na miséria do existir. Quando ninguém mais permaneceu, sobrou-lhe a convivência com os abandonos. Depois do amor, deixou de pertencer a lugar algum; não houve terra nem mar, servindo-lhe o céu apenas para doer nas noites, quando a tristeza se escuta melhor. Depois do fim, calam-se os ventos. Depois do fim, não há caminhos de volta, apenas um único momento sem princípio nem final, sem alívio, nem mesmo para os horizontes. … Continue reading O que restou…

I am a poor tailor of time. My fingers fumble with the delicate fabric of moments, trying to weave coherence from chaos. But the measurements elude me, slipping through my grasp like sand. The cloth always falls short, leaving frayed edges and unfinished seams. Pockets of hours, those tiny sanctuaries, mock me. They are too small, insufficient for the grand designs I envision. I stitch them together, patchwork-style, hoping to create a quilt of purpose. Yet, the threads tangle, forming knots of uncertainty. My routine becomes a labyrinth, a maze of missed stitches and dropped needles. And in this weaving, … Continue reading Stitching Time

There are many poems which touch us through the years. Poetry has the ability to say what we feel. It’s rhythm sometimes comforts us as a child can be comforted in a rocking chair. It lays bare the soul and pretense and pride are burned away by the fires of yesterday. It comforts us when we feel sadness and despair. It inspires us when hope is almost lost.The night has a thousand eyes,And the day but one;Yet the light of the bright world diesWith the dying sun.The mind has a thousand eyesAnd the heart but one;Yet the light of a … Continue reading Poetry