She felt compelled to put pastels and paint to canvas. Yet, she knew she wasn’t an artist. She had tried in the past and jumbles appeared, blotches of colour. It just looked messy.
Maybe she needed some more messy in her life. And so she painted…
confessions are self-serving
Life somehow is chasing rainbows with a stranger; with that, you'll never be lonely.
With a Challenger-deep Sentiments
Words are beautiful beyond meanings
Novelist, Poet, Wordsmith
weird alien 👽
the literary asylum
Understanding someone’s way with words isn’t as simple as you think.
Talk Books. Drink Coffee.
WITHIN ARE PIECES OF ME
Poetry from an English Hart
Thoughts on Writing, Art, and Life
Lucidly in shadows. Poetry from a hand that writes misty.
Poetry, story and real life. Once soldier, busnessman, grandfather and Poet.
Because poetry. And petals.