When the world departs, and darkness starts to reign, my poetry and my stories is the tear that flows like endless rain, a constant downpour that never truly dries, soaking every word etched in my shattered heart, where love once bloomed, now torn apart. 

It's a melancholic song, a symphony of sighs, a reflection of emotions that never lie, a testament to hope, a fragile, flickering flame, a reminder that beauty can rise from pain and shame.

 My poetry and my stories like fragile blooms, my poems unfold, A tapestry of words, both new and old. Each verse a petal, delicate and fine, Awaiting touch, a hand to intertwine.

For in the wrong embrace, they wilt and fade, Their vibrant hues to shadows are betrayed. Neglect and scorn, a chilling, bitter frost, Will steal their beauty, leave them forever lost.

But in the hands of kindred souls so rare, Who cherish beauty, and with gentle care Unfurl their secrets, line by precious line, My verses blossom, eternally divine.