if anyone still really writes here?

One day,
One day soon,
I'll come back.

Maybe write something. Maybe.

I make no promises.
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She wasn't always so bitter,
so equally hateful.

To people.

People that hit,
and spoke words that made her eyes overflow.
People
that corrupted the very world she breathed.
People
that made her turn from those in need of
the very thing she lacked.

Soon,
every feeling turned from love
to a torrent of sadness,
to suffocating anger,
to lead-heavy hatred.

And so she grew,
like a small poppy stuck between cement slabs,
unheeded and uncared for.

And yet she was overjoyed
at the chance of even living
stuck within the cracks.


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Encased in electric blue and sea green glass I wander through the garden, intoxicated by the heady smell of damp earth and thick foliage sagging with heavy blossoms.

It breathes–-its warm inhalation sweeping me in and its chill exhalation keep me moving, discovering dazzling features unnoticed by others who pay the garden no real heed. Exotic birds with blinding colors use their wings to paint the fragrant air around me.

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