I write whatever is on my mind!
We live in a house of glass, where every word might shatter walls. Sunlight bends through our silence, casting shadows of what we cannot say.
By Winry17 days ago in Poets
In life's bustling kitchen, they hand me a card: "Recipe for Success" in bold, black type. Ingredients listed: a spouse, two kids, A corner office by thirty-three.
By Winryabout a year ago in Poets
In the office, I'm a tightrope walker supreme, Confident strides across the wire of work, But in matters of the heart, I lose my gleam.
In the garden of my being, I plant seeds of patience, Nurture roots of self-love. Each day, I water confidence With drops of friend's affirmations,
In the kitchen, words hang heavy, A father's comment, sharp and ready. Daughter's anger flares, a sudden flame, But memory whispers a different name.
In the swirl of cafe chatter, A matcha latte steams, Memories of yesterday's anger Dissolve like sugar dreams. Problematic views, once thorns,
In the hush of a day without edges, I steep in the gentle green of routine. Buldak simmers, a spicy whisper From my brother's careful hands.
In the hush of fluorescent lights, I stand, a sapling among redwoods, Roots seeking purchase in foreign soil. Each glance, a gust that threatens to uproot,
In the bustling cafe, a world unfolds, Chatter and clinking cups, stories untold. Yet in this sea of noise, I sit alone, A quiet island, thoughts my only home.
In the ballroom of connection, We stepped onto the polished floor, You and I, strangers in motion, Attempting a dance unexplored.
In the mirror, fingers trace a familiar path, Serum, moisturizer, a daily ritual's math. Pen meets paper, thoughts unfurl like vines,
The fortune cookie sat untouched on the table, a silent observer to the lunchtime chatter swirling around the bustling Chinese resturant. Jia picked it up and turned it over in her fingers, studying the wavy edges and golden brown hue, before snapping it open with a satisfying crack.
By Winryabout a year ago in Fiction
