– little meadow.
sometimes it's not just me writing these words, sometimes it's not just these pages of ivory that i drag my wrist over. i do not want to adapt into thinking that writing is all between the confines of a book and the ink of a pen. to me, it's all the more.
at times, i do not just write what i imagine, but i imagine what i write, i am not a poet weaving words, but these words are what weave me to become a poet. for this expanse of blankness i find in my journals is to me a garden, a garden where i sow seeds of words that i hope one day will bear fruits for those who come to visit this little meadow i plow.
YOU ARE READING
swevens of vernorexia
Poesíai shall bloom flowers of love in your heart, so you may bleed petals for blood when i leave.
