When they tell you this Tragedy that’s made a home in your bones filled up your body.is not worth our time, pick up your pen and show them every way they are wrong. Scream it out for every other Women desperate to not be Alone in this. When they force you to believe this Pain is not Universal,tell them they are Wrong. When they whisper to you in the dead of the night, you are just another Plath. until she haunts every one of your poems tell them you are the one writing your Own Story, not them.You will never … Continue reading To poetess

‘No,’ she said. ‘Don’t write about me. Write yourself into me. I don’t want to be a letter or a verse, a poem or a novel. I want you to give away the words you seek to define me by. I want fingers that bled ink to bleed blood. I want your heart to detach from your brain just for a moment. No second guessing, no self-doubt. Take a breath and let the words fade into actions and let your heartbeat match mine. Take your time. You’ve been hiding behind that wall for too long. It’s time to live for … Continue reading Don’t write about me …

If you were going to take a walk in my shoes, then I do not envy you. For you would be stuck in a maze with no exit, and trapped within walls that would even make the greatest escape artists claustrophobic. And at your feet you would see that the ‘shoes’ you wear are not even there, for you walk bare across shatter glass, cutting you deep from each step you take. Reflections of these broken fragments you walk through are images reminding you of dreams that you once believed in, now destroyed by a series of unfortunate events that … Continue reading Take a walk in my shoes …

Maybe love was a way to grow old. Love has put my friends, family, and all things to grow old together. Time is also counted in a different way when we fall in love. Maybe that’s why we feel it so much, no matter if we are a hundred or a little over ten years old. For the ones who did not love and hurt me I decided not to love them anymore, I have to learn the art of letting them go. By the passions that kindled me and then I thought I loved I kept them. For the … Continue reading Maybe love was …

I woke up from a dream where my hands were held close to another heartbeat, and I learned of love. I learned of the softness of skin and the early morning sun. Love is a small thing. It is whispered, it is an afterthought. Love is what comes in between. It’s what is lost on subway cars as people some walk in and others leave. Maybe even forever. It is the thing that you stepped on as you walked out of your apartment. It is the folded corner of a book, the music that you hum when no one else … Continue reading I woke up …

You long to know what it is to want once more. To feel what it is to yield. Hardened in self-control, in poise, in static splendor; you’ve become divorced from yourself. You make love not through your skin, but through your writing. That which is made up of all parts of you; the wounded girl, the fetishist, the pagan bride, the mystic, the childless mother, the violent pragmatist, the muse, the lover, the loved… the hurting-to-be-loved. You’ve been running from yourself, from him, from her, from the hateful anonymous, from the loving choir. There is nothing more terrifying than the … Continue reading You long to know…

May everyone has a warm love.A save shelter to rest from this complicated world.Surprises for routine days.Who waits for. Who miss you.A name among all.The most beautiful verse. The music that you never forgets. The pair to every dance.For those who wake up. Who dreams before bedtime.A hand to hold, a shoulder to lean on, a hug to live in.A theme for the whole story.A certainty to all doubts.Window lit in dark night.A port where to dock. Calm weather after the storm.A life sewn in yours, with a long piece of wool of time…❤ Continue reading May everyone has …

I come from a raging sea that gave me no rest, a taste of salt in the throat and a thirst in the midst of so much water. I’ve been tired of the fight. And my thirst was water and peace…  Continue reading Water and Peace

Ça s’peut qu’un jour on s’parle de moins en moins, ou même qu’on se parle plus du tout. Et saches que si ça arrive, c’pas ça que j’voulais. En fait, j’t’aurais gardé pour «toute la vie», comme qu’on avait dit. Ça s’peut aussi que j’rencontre du nouveau monde. Que j’aille l’air heureuse. Que j’aille l’air de bien aller. Ça s’peut que j’déménage. Que j’change d’air. Que j’essaie d’me changer les idées pis d’me rafraîchir le cœur ailleurs. Tu l’sais, j’me cherche encore. Peut-être que dans l’fond, ça m’frais du bien partir loin. Dans l’inconnu. Ça s’peut qu’un jour, t’entendes de … Continue reading Si jamais tu sens que j’t’oublie, bin c’pas vrai.

I am a details person. Small moments, gliding light, tinkering spoons kind of person. However, I am also often one to be overtaken by the capacity and the anxieties of the human heart, the glut of mine and others’ around me. It is easy to succumb to these onsets of feeling and lose all sense of placement and perspective. You should lose your place, sometimes. But the heart is made of intricate chambers. Other times, you need merely pull up a quiet chair and listen to the workings instead of thinking about the work, and remember that we are all … Continue reading Small moments, the best ones…