writing. it comes when it comes. funny thing, it just never comes by, stops by. it just simply hits you. at absolutely any given time. when you least expect it; expect it (remember that— it’s gonna be important later)

writing is all i have. it’s what i’ve got to offer you. a gift i was given by Heaven (a gift from Heaven)— the one which, from that very day on, has become a gift, above all, to my own self. and, from that too, i especially made it my gift to you. something no one can take away from me; something only i can give to you.

i didn’t know what to say, so i wrote you a poem. i didn’t know what to write, so i gave you my heart

and, in spite of it all, my heart’s still a thousand times even more worth than my deepest, most precious words, i could ever mean to write— so handle with care; not only my pieces of work or art, but also and most importantly, the pieces of my human being beating-heart that i faithfully, thoroughly gave to you— it’s now yours too.

and so my little poets, with that, i hope you know that deep inside everyone, there is a hidden poet, only awaiting to be awaken and inspired by someone else’s poetic light and magic touch, ‘cause poetry really does live inside all of us

happy world poetry day (a gift from me to you) xx b