Collected Poems from my phone’s Notes
One — 2003
I remember vibrant November afternoons;
running barefoot on coarse, caliginous sands.
If one were to ask my five year old self what her definition of solitude is, she’d most likely answer: It’s 2003. One in the afternoon. The skies are cloudless and blue. The April summer heat has forced me to lay inside the small hut that stood near my Grandparents house. With the occasional sea breeze…
For the most part of my juvenile life, I’ve spent so much of my valuable hours on sketching dream worlds and making up scenarios on any kind of paper sheet I could find. I’ve drawn and created characters that spoke so much of the personalities and traits that I wish to…