we are all like poems. some of us rhyme. some don’t. some are Pulitzer prizessome are just scribblesand yet, we all possessa special kind of beautythat can either heal or cut to the boneone that can never quitebe fathomed, nor forgotten.

She looked at the last thing she had written and she felt calm. Then she crossed the words out vehemently, scribbling until even the shape of the sentence was destroyed.

Stella scribbledin thick black textaacross half the pagesof my best storybook,filled with people who venturedwhere their hearts took them.Beautiful worlds beyond mine.