Be me.

Emotions building up inside

A hopeless romantic

Nature is More Pretty

You.

Anchor.

I am usually attracted to the cover, the synopsis, or even the author's name, when I choose a book to read. Then there are other times, when I choose a book by reading the first three sentences on the first page. However, Amanda Lovelace's poetry collection's title was the one that did it this time. the princess saves herself in this one.

I can storm the streets in anger,

The things,

She was a borderline fanatic searching for the smallest of details, that seemed to but warm her heart.

I am a poet.

There is an undeniable parallel between the history of rice and skin colour. It reminds us that darkness equates to filth, and this is stems from classism. Brown rice had a history of being cheap pig food. Evidently, it became unfathomable for humans to consider eating something meant for a farm animal.

Emotions building up inside

Anchor.

Home at Last.

You.

Super Social Guy

Rising when I wake

A hopeless romantic

I knew someone long time ago,

I think of you in the morning,

Nature is More Pretty

At the place where, a noon's heat begins,

I clench your hand tightly, I've never seen such a sight

I went to the garden to cry.

Her eyes began to swell

I remember the moment I first met you, I can recall the look in your eyes.

I'm in the shower and I start thinking to myself, 'If only I could wash the problems from my life the way I wash dirt from my skin'. Could I possibly efface the trauma in my soul, deep within? I don't know where to begin. Maybe I should start by loving myself. Stop trying to please the guy or girl who can't love me, the family who for some reason thinks they're above me and learn to recognize my value; I am a queen the likes of which no one has ever seen, a diamond in the rough ready to polished so that I gleam.

I can’t fathom

I don't feel the spark of joy I once felt with you.

Is it the colour of my skin?

How we perceive things is what scares me. It's the basis for everything in our world.

I used to have conversations with God.

Be me.

Behind a chain-link fence, somewhere between seen and secure, I hold my place in the world.

Debt

Against the fallen snow, an incarnation of beauty stands tall. The hissing of death, and the muted rounds of music make to ascend, like a risen ghost, the trembling, the cherished form. Wounds of scarlet and black erupt across the surface of the superb skin. All the proper colors of life darken and deepen, clear and break free, circling about as the vision is constructed.

Fairy

Mother of all children ( μητέρα όλων των παιδιών )