adelethewriter
"I write from my soul. This is the reason that critics don't hurt me, because it is me. If it was not me, if I was pretending to be someone else, then this could unbalance my world, but I know who I am." -Paulo Coelho / / © (Adele's intellectual property. Too deep you can see me rolling)
Hi again,
I see myself here,
writing, thinking—
just thinking.
I imagine a poetry book,
and I want to call it “The Little Things That Move the Heart.”
But here it comes again,
the voice, laughing—
an image pointing at me, laughing.
I say, yes, I have no time.
Time—
it moves fast,
tiny legs chasing all of us,
pushing us toward a peak.
Will we keep running
and leap into the abyss,
or pause on the edge, frozen—
no turning back,
while time, relentless,
comes for us anyway?
Jan 13
Jan 13, 2026 at 12:48 AM UTC
She writes again. And again. And again.
Then she stops. And now she’s back.
But she has nothing to say.
She pauses. Thinking.
She woke up one day. It’s 2026.
The little girl who used to dream of big things
is now facing the adversity of life,
in a world that feels like a competition.
Will she ever win?
She asks herself:
Am I too late to chase the dream?
To write again?
Will these bills keep stealing her time,
stealing her creativity,
stealing the world she used to float in?
But she is no longer that girl.
She has to change.
She tells herself maybe writing isn’t important anymore—
maybe her priorities have shifted.
And yet.
She woke up.
And she writes again.
Jan 5
Jan 5, 2026 at 9:17 PM UTC
I am running in circles.
His vivid face flashes in my mind, laughing—
And it melts my heart.
The way he holds me tight
makes me believe my heart is alive,
thumping, knocking,
like a bird trapped in a cage,
fluttering its wings.
When he looks into my eyes,
I see a field of flowers blooming in spring.
But in reality, it is wilting.
I feel myself running out of breath.
Feb 7, 2022
Feb 7, 2022 at 9:20 AM UTC
All this time,
I believed I had it.
I believed I was better.
Stronger. Smarter.
But when I look at myself,
my knees weaken at the chaos my mind scribbles.
There is a way out of this maze.
I become poetry, a clairvoyant,
able only to sense why I must escape
before the clock strikes twelve.
It will take hard work.
I need a plan.
It is possible.
Poetry guarantees that all I need
is to use my senses,
to put the pieces back together,
to find this one way out.
Feb 1, 2021
Feb 1, 2021 at 2:30 PM UTC
Days pass like a bullet.
No warning.
Straight to the chest.
Eyes wide, fixed on the blue sky
as time stretches—
dilates—
runs faster than I can follow.
Where did the good days go?
The warmth of the sun
that used to rest on my face
Like it knew me?
My body sinks into sharp grass.
Still.
Heavy.
Unmoving.
My mind drifts—
dark space, endless—
searching for something cosmic,
something strong enough
to rip my soul out,
spin it through a vacuum,
reborn again
and again
for billions of years.
You are a star.
So why don’t I stand in front of a mirror
and say it?
Why don’t I take the bullet—
risk everything—
for a second chance at living?
Instead, I surrender to gravity.
Maybe it’s an illusion.
Maybe not.
The Earth grips me anyway,
claims my body,
keeps me here.
I do not move.
What are you afraid of?
The mind asks.
And for one honest moment,
The answer arrives:
to be better.
Feb 1, 2021
Feb 1, 2021 at 2:18 PM UTC
I have to embrace the silence
and step inside my head,
listen to the voice,
find the sea of imagination
that soothes
the relentless beating of my heart.
I choose to drift away
from spontaneity—
from images reflected in light.
This freedom, subjective,
moves toward a concept,
proving that aesthetic beauty
travels through the faculty of knowledge,
born from a storm,
into a new beginning
rising from ruin.
Reason remains pure,
guiding me to my highest self.
I am invincible.
Jan 13, 2020
Jan 13, 2020 at 8:31 PM UTC
It feels like walking in a vast space,
with the reflection of Tunupa Volcano
on a gargantuan salt-flat lake.
Pink flamingos flock, spreading their wings,
sprinkling the roseate sky across the crystal water.
The wind blows under sunlight
that gleams through the veins of this land of iodine.
The floor is a ceiling of incantations,
and at night, a myriad of stars
whispers burning desires
about how to live your life.
Soon, you find yourself chasing the sunrise,
embracing the frosty wind,
walking through rock and grass fields
where llamas adore the grand white flats.
Tiny houses vanish from sight;
your feet take you higher, defying gravity.
Rocks no longer impede the journey.
And there you are—
standing tall, looking over the frozen salt ocean,
oh, how vast and mighty, touching the sky,
and you are on top of the world.
Tranquil, courageous, unafraid,
sometimes you are the only one
who can pat your back and say:
"We did it. Now, no one can stop us. What a climb!"
Dec 21, 2019
Dec 21, 2019 at 10:05 PM UTC
In this painting, her red hair
blew in a sudden gust.
The behemoth—sleeping buffalo mountain—
gazed upon her,
her face unseen.
But this is her story.
When the South Pole tilts,
catching the sun’s beam,
people fly toward the light.
That’s when Martina ascends the peak,
against raging northern snow.
There, she discovers mountain goats
grazing on empty twigs.
She finds shelter in a tea house,
fresh wood dropped
by a whirring bird
to warm the cabin
that overlooks six glaciers.
Martina roams in solitude,
running through the wilds.
Darkness falls,
and you can see her eyes dim at night.
She is unbreakable.
The lynx spirit guides her.
Dec 21, 2019
Dec 21, 2019 at 10:03 PM UTC
She withers like dying leaves.
How did she survive?
Her husband, tied beneath the chestnut tree.
She smuggled the gun
to save her son.
Long live Ursula—
epitome of strength,
embodiment of power.
A time when darkness forged her
into a force,
until she shrank,
and the dead birds fell to the ground.
Dec 21, 2019
Dec 21, 2019 at 10:00 PM UTC