roses were not my thing
and somehow he already knew
from the very beginning,
because one September morning
as the sun arrived to greet me
“good morning”
so did he,
with an abundance of handpicked daisies
and a breathtaking “hello”
with that smile, seemingly genuine,
so believably true, like the daisies.

but he left the next month,
leaving me with a vase of shriveling sadness.

roses were not my thing
but somehow you never really knew
because one February morning
the morning sky blazing with a vibrant tangerine hue,
you arrived at my doorstep
with a bouquet of tired-looking roses
and i recall wondering why
so you insisted that they were
beautiful, like me.
but to me, they weren’t beautiful at all
just a cliché mess of mediocrity,
the furthest away from beautiful
and so was I.

but you never left my side,
and with time they grew out of their vase
                    and into my heart.

i distinctly remember
your admirable smile
and the serene look on your face
blushing in the warm summer air
and how that smile
seemed to embarrass the stars
and the overall brightness of it
humiliated the city lights.

i distinctly remember
the sound of your laughter
euphonic and melodious
ringing like joyous church bells
and how that laugh
put all symphonies to shame
and the overall resonance of it
mortified the musicality of this world.

i distinctly remember
your face in the midst of a crowd
staring back at me, a ghost
with a gaunt, pitiable look
and how that face
seemed as despairing as the ocean
and how the overall sight of it
stirred jealousy in the oppressive rainclouds

you fell in love with april
and the warm breezes within it
you fell in love with our small talk
and deep conversations
overflowing with continuous feeling

i fell in love with red
because that's what you always wore
and i fell in love with paper
because it was my bitter escape
from a tumultuous flame inside of me

you fell in love with my words,
my unintentional smiles
and never ending stories
you fell in love with bits and pieces
but not in love with me

There once lived a girl
Barely even three
Who wore childish, innocent smiles
And ran around freely.
She spent summer with her sister
Picking lilac flowers,
Rolling down grassy hills
Endless fun for hours.

There once lived a girl
Finally thirteen
Who wore gloss on her lips
And said things she didn’t mean.
She spent summer all alone
Never picking any flowers
Claiming she had better things to do
With her endless summer hours.

There once lived a girl
Sixteen, impossibly thin
Who painted scarlet on her wrists
Because she could never ever win.
She spent summer locked away
Bawling in her room for hours
And there was nothing in the world she wanted
More than lilac flowers.

There once was a girl
Who tried so hard in life
But she couldn’t bear to live
With her sugarcoated strife
And one day she just vanished
So her sister cried for hours
And upon her solemn grave
She laid withering lilac flowers.

life is beautiful, they say,
and sure enough, it is.
each ray of sunlight,
that kisses you awake
each smile exchanged,
so incomparably honest
each breath emitted,
a sure sign of existence
there’s no doubt
that life is beautiful.

life is beautiful, they say,
but you begin to question
whether it’s fiction or not
as you lay awake at 4 AM
with a tear-stained face
each breath you take,
seemingly meaningless
each second that goes by,
igniting your loneliness.
is life really beautiful then?

i hope you still remember
sitting by my side, silent as stone
and how even though the air was
perfectly still,
and even though no words were
uttered,
there was still an unvoiced sense
of tranquility
which floated harmoniously
above both of us,
perhaps it was just me, but at that
particular moment
we were united in a beautiful
mess of noiseless bliss
so still, so secretive
and i swore to myself
that silence was the most
fascinating creature

i hope you still remember
sitting by my side, silent as stone
with the air untroubled, and perfectly
still
and how even though it seemed better
quiet than blatant
and even though there were no words
spoken at all
there was still a deafening ache
which lurked over us like a hateful fog
perhaps it was just me, but at that
particular moment
we were divided by a tremendous wall
of shameful hurt
so still, so secretive
and i swore to myself
that silence was the most catastrophic
form of loneliness

I believe in the aptitude of creativity
the sudden, yet intense, surge of inspiration
the hidden blissful pieces of life
the satisfaction in pure simplicity
the endless, vast, human imagination
soaring dreams, passionate feelings, and the casual moments
that morph into fantasy.



But I don’t believe that inspiration can only be located in the happy moments we experience, without even digging for it.



I believe in forgiving, but not forgetting.
I believe in the beauty of amiable innocence.
I believe in finding immense creativity in the
mysterious, the meager, and the seemingly insignificant.



And I believe in jumping imagination barriers and escaping
this destructive and confined reality.