Tears have accompanied me through every stage of life, marking moments of separation, growth, and self-discovery. As a child, I cried on my first day of school, feeling the sting of detachment from those I loved. In adolescence, my tears fell for the first heartbreak, the first disappointment, and even the first blemish on my face. Over time, I learned to cry more deeply, more meaningfully, as life unfolded its complexities before me. I have cried for hatred, disillusionment, disappointment, despair, pain, fear, and longing. Just as I have laughed in moments of enchantment and happiness, my tears have reflected … Continue reading Tears …

Tell me love,What country do you belong to when you are in love? The words are impatient when you do not listen to them, the poetry gets sad in your absenceThe silence is incomplete when you’re not here When do you come back?I will kiss you for ten secondsAnd I will be happy forever…❤️ Continue reading Tell me …

In the whispers of the dust, I hear the echoes of my ancestors, a soft murmur that speaks of the village that cradled their dreams. It is within this fine silt that I find the fragments of my being, piecing together the mosaic of my soul. The hues of the earth paint me as a wandering tree, my roots submerged in the memories of a time when water was the cradle of life. With each gust of wind, I am scattered to the corners of the earth, a spectral dance of particles lost in the vastness of the sky. Yet, … Continue reading Dust and Ancestral Echoes

I want to write about the language of touch, the silent conversations held in the clasp of hands, the secrets whispered through fingertips. I want to write about the way a mother’s hand can soothe a child, the way a lover’s touch can ignite a spark, the way a friend’s comforting pat can ease a burden. I want to write about the domestic dance of marriage, the rhythm of routine, the melody of shared moments. I want to explore the growing void that can creep into the most intimate of spaces, the separate beds in a shared room, the unspoken … Continue reading The Imprints of Human Connection

I am changing, a perpetual metamorphosis. Like a leaf caught in the whims of time, I twirl through the seasons. Each turn brings a new hue, a fresh face to the world. In spring, I unfurl like a tender bud, reaching for the sun. My veins pulse with life, and I wear the green cloak of hope. The air smells of possibility, and I sway with the breeze, eager to embrace the warmth. Summer arrives, and I bask in the golden glory. My edges crisp, kissed by the sun’s fiery lips. I am vibrant, alive, and my laughter rustles through … Continue reading The Dance of Seasons

Je ne veux pas être humain.Je veux être qui je suis.Ils disent que je suis un lion, que je les poursuivrai.Je ne nie pas qu’il y a des lions en moi. Je suis le monstre dans la forêt,j’ai des merveilles dans ma maison de sucre.Je porte en moi des parties que je ne comprends pas encore.Je ne suis pas un Bon Robot. Raconter l’histoire d’un robot qui veut être humainest une distraction de ce qui importe.Il n’y a pas de différence. Vivant est vivant.Il n’y a qu’un seul verbe qui compte :Être. 🙏🏾❤️ ©️ Beatriz Esmer Continue reading Lion

Œil pour œil, balle pour balleDent pour dent. Vers clandestins de contrebandiersAu lieu d’amants, rafalesAgitées la nuit, sans abri, froidDésabusé de toute innocenceEntre les voitures suppliantesAu feu rougeAvec un œil transpercé comme le poètePieds nus sur le sable incandescent. Là où il y a de la violenceLà où l’argument échoueLà où il n’y a plus d’espoir. Là où il y a un couvre-feuIl y a un cri… 😞 ©️ Beatriz Esmer Continue reading Œil pour œil …

In the library of existence, our lives are but volumes on the shelves of time. Each soul’s narrative, a unique composition, striving to etch its essence onto the parchment of reality. We are the authors, the protagonists, the critics of our own tales, fervently inscribing chapters with the ink of our choices, our joys, our sorrows. What worth is a life, one might ponder, devoid of a tale to recount? Yet, the value lies not in the grandiosity of the plot, but in the sincerity of its prose. For the monuments we seek, the legacies we yearn to leave behind, … Continue reading Hall of Fame Of This Life

Read me. My words are no longer innocent or clumsy, they are my skin you can feel them. I overflow between syllables and phrases for your delight. Read me. Devour the subtext of my thoughts. Interpret my storyline, my plot; all my words are untouchables, dormant; they are waiting to be uncovered. You just need to understand the meanings of confusing beats of my heart, letters and foolish sentences of my prose in febrile moments…😉❤️ ©️ Beatriz Esmer Continue reading Read me …

An artist-a poet rather, fell in love with the simplicity in her reflection. She wrote; penned sestinas to her name, odes to her graces, attempted to infringe on the fine lines of ballads. She was in love with herself. One morning, when the sun started out its quest to reach the zenith of his sky, she sat at her desk facing the bustle down below. Gazing at herself smeared on the window, a dark limping figure wrapped in the finest silk of enigma, standing out amongst the vibrant colour of euphoria, caught her gaze. She was both intrigued and baffled: … Continue reading Pieces