Tag: writing

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Prose on Love’s Vastness

beatrizesmer

In the quiet chambers of a small heart, a vast love resides. It is a love that defies the confines of its vessel, spilling over and traveling with the wind. This love, so immense, descends gently, loosening the pomegranate’s grip, and falls into the depths of two wandering almond eyes. It ascends with the dawn, finding solace in the tender dimples that greet the morning light, and in its journey, it forgets the way back to the familiar comforts of house and name. This heart, though small, holds a love that is boundless. It is a love that knows no … Continue reading Prose on Love’s Vastness

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Spring’s Renewal

beatrizesmer

“Yes, I deserve a spring–I owe nobody nothing.” I have walked through the harsh winters of doubt and the stormy nights of self-reproach, but now, as the first light of spring kisses the earth, I realize that I am worthy of this rebirth. I have shed the weight of expectations that were never mine to bear, and I have untangled myself from the webs of obligations that sought to bind me. The journey to this moment has been long and arduous, but with each step, I have grown stronger, more resilient. I have learned to listen to the whispers of … Continue reading Spring’s Renewal

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When I grow up, I want to be an artist.

beatrizesmer

In the mess of my childhood, I often found myself lost in the colors of my imagination. The world around me, with its vibrant hues and intricate patterns, whispered secrets of beauty and wonder. I dreamt of capturing these whispers, of translating the language of the universe onto a canvas. As I grew, so did my dreams. They blossomed like wildflowers in the meadow of my mind, each petal a stroke of inspiration. I envisioned myself standing before a blank canvas, my heart beating in rhythm with the brush in my hand. The colors would dance and swirl, creating a … Continue reading When I grow up, I want to be an artist.

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Naked Desperation in the Citadel

beatrizesmer

In the heart of an ancient citadel, I stand, stripped bare before the relentless gaze of life. The memories of my past are but a distant echo, lost in the labyrinth of my mind. Here I am, naked and exposed, on the threshold of a place that feels both foreign and familiar. The stone streets whisper secrets of forgotten times, and the wooden windows, tightly shut, offer me a semblance of privacy in my exposed state. Despair clings to me like a second skin, a constant reminder of the homeland that has forsaken me. I am a stranger in this … Continue reading Naked Desperation in the Citadel

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The Unyielding Presence of Pain

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Pain, a relentless actress, takes center stage in the theater of life. She dons many masks, each more haunting than the last. She is the tight smile that conceals a storm, the hunched heart burdened by invisible weights, the knot that twists and turns within our chests. Her presence is undeniable, her grip unyielding. Yet, pain is not merely an antagonist. She is a force that rusts and ages, disarming us with her raw power. She leaves an indelible mark, impressing upon us the depths of our own vulnerability. But in her wake, she also brings recovery and relief. She … Continue reading The Unyielding Presence of Pain

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Primal Instincts

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I slip into your skin, a trespasser in the temple of longing. The air thickens, charged with anticipation—a prelude to the tempest that awaits. My fingers trace the contours of your existence, mapping constellations of secrets etched upon your canvas. Your skin—oh, your skin—is parchment for whispered confessions. Each pore, a wellspring of stories waiting to be inked. I read you like a sacred text, deciphering the hieroglyphs of desire. My eyes, those curious voyagers, drink from your wells of vulnerability. They savor the taste of vulnerability—the sweet ache of surrender. And then, our lips collide—a cataclysm of need. There’s … Continue reading Primal Instincts

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Memoire Oubliée

beatrizesmer

Tes yeux sont si profonds que j’y perds la mémoire. Your eyes—their irises like twin galaxies—hold secrets older than constellations. They are wellsprings of forgotten tales, where the past and present entwine, and the future hesitates, unsure of its own script. I imagine tracing the contours of your gaze—the delicate arch of your brow, the crescent moons etched beneath your lashes. Each blink, a shutter capturing fragments of existence: stolen kisses, whispered promises, the scent of rain on cobblestone streets. And within those depths, memory unravels like a vintage tapestry. Perhaps it was a moonlit soirée, where laughter swirled like … Continue reading Memoire Oubliée

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The Unseen Ensemble

beatrizesmer

In the noisy chambers of my being, I harbor multitudes—a kaleidoscope of selves, each with its own story etched upon the walls of my heart. They are not mere figments; they are the architects of my existence, the dreamers who whisper secrets in moonlight. Within me, there is the wanderer—the one who craves distant shores and the taste of salt on wind-kissed lips. She wears the scent of forgotten places, and her eyes hold the map of constellations. She yearns for horizons beyond the mundane, where the sky is an open canvas waiting for her brushstroke. Beside her stands the … Continue reading The Unseen Ensemble

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I Declare My Fragilities and My Fears

beatrizesmer

I declare my fragilities and my fears. They are the delicate threads that weave the fabric of my soul—the warp and weft of vulnerability. I am weak, yes, and small—a mere mote of stardust adrift in the cosmic expanse. But within this fragility lies a quiet strength, a resilience born of surrender. Let Me Walk in Beauty Let me walk in beauty, for beauty is the language of the divine. The red and purple sunsets—their hues bleeding across the canvas of the sky—are my hymns. I drink them in, these fleeting moments of grace, and they nourish me. They remind … Continue reading I Declare My Fragilities and My Fears

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Echoes of August

beatrizesmer

In the quietude of August, when the sun hangs low and shadows stretch across the land, there exists a melody—an ancient refrain that transcends time and memory. It is a song born from the heart of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, etched into the very atoms that witnessed devastation and rebirth. August tunes, like a weathered gramophone, wind its spindle through the years. It replays a tearful symphony—an elegy for lost souls, for cities turned to ash, for the fragile threads of humanity severed by the unforgiving hand of war. The notes, once vibrant, now carry the weight of history—a requiem whispered … Continue reading Echoes of August