I fell in love with your proses
Your words never failed to enlighten everyone
You picked up every single one who needs help the most
They wanted to die,
But you keep on scolding with love
I never thought I could fall in love with someone here
Your passion for words
Your passion for peace
Is so alluringly attractive
Like a magnet you pulled me into your gravity
For the first time I'm actually scared to talk to a guy
But we did talked and now I'm still hungover.
You got me hypnotised by your kindness
Your relentless flame to help those who wanted to end
You with your pen, sparks of love fervent
Your neverending collabs, you will never say no.
If only you would ask me
And maybe we could be
Partners for life.

I was helping my little sister with a fiction story she has to write for her school
She was creating a character
I told her to create some personality traits, some tendencies that define her character, some unique habits so that the character is sharp in the readers mind, like a real person, nothing vague. She then had me read what she had written.
Brace yourselves, her level of sanity is a little concerning...

Here it is:

**she can not talk because her mother died and now she is too angry at fish to talk

she is missing one hand because she had to do cooking at home to help out but she accidentally cut off her hand  

she does not have any hair because she has cancer  

she has a obsession with clowns and dressed up as a clown every year for Halloween

she is deathly afraid of daisies

she wants to be the prime minister when she grows up , even though she lives in the U.S  

her backup plan is to become a clown

she loves buying turtles as pets

she already owns 14 turtles and they are all either named Abrocombie or Fitch  

She despises the names Abrocombie and Fitch but she loves all her turtles especially Fitch who she nicknamed Bob  

she owns a leather jacket that she wears every day except for on the days she buys turtles on...
so she never wears her leather jacket

My armies are in full retreat:
the cannons cold,
boots worn down,
muskets jammed and rusted --
Well fought and ready for rest.
My men seek shelter deep,
deep enough that hands cannot reach,
and they shall stay there for, perhaps, ever.
I was always told "no,"
that money ran the world
and a passion for words will not be enough,
that I will fail...
So my army is in retreat,
tired of fighting a constant defense,
using our last resources to build a keep
to lock away every imaginative flutter of golden butterflies,
and hide away any stray flicker of a thoughtful flame.
The oak trees of my mind's forest have been cut down,
nothing but stumps and leaves
and the smell of industrial smoke
from the bark of my oaks.
This time next year,
I hope not to be completely dead inside
that, somehow, deep in the keep of my soul,
a willow will weep beautiful tears
for lost soldiers and fallen oaks.
Perhaps the keep will thrive,
fighting off the countless sieges
and housing pilgrim dreams.
Perhaps the conquerers will be kind,
offering mercy to the innocent
and a quick death to the ones who deny "no."
It breaks my heart to call retreat,
but a small, crumbling, wounded dream
is better than no dream at all.

Some people say it with ease. I hear it when people talk to, let's say,  a child or a parent on phone after conversation—or in person.  I wished it were that easy for me.

I am quite sure my parents did not hear it as children. That is why I never heard it growing up. My parents were not affection-less people, though. It was just that the words were foreign to them.

When my grandma was dying of heart disease in 1985—my mom's mom—my mom told her on the phone that she loved her. I think my grandmother said it first, and my mom echoed it. But it was such an unusual three-word saying that my mom choked up and got quite emotional. I think it was more the words spoken, than the realization that her mom would die, that tore my mom up.

Well, my grandmother probably never heard it from her parents. Her father was supposed to be a very compassionate man, but her mother was a funny one. Her dad kept my maternal grandparents afloat. They had thirteen children—my mom being the oldest— and he gave his daughter his old house when he moved out. My mom also remembers him coming over the house with vegetables from his garden to help feed her big family.

My grandma's mom, on the other hand, was unforgiving. Her mother died back in Alsace—in Germany— in an air attack back in World War I. From then on, she despised Italians--even her own Italian son-in-law and the children she would avoid. She remained angry at my grandma for marrying my grandpa—because it must have seemed a foolish move—and from then on my grandma didn't see much of her.

My dad didn't get to hear, "I love you", either, from his folks. I'd bet the farm on that.  One of his female cousins had a tale about my grandmother's mom. The cousin's mother was the youngest surviving sibling that my grandmother had. This sister, the cousin's mother,  had a friend who came from a very loving and demonstrative family. They said they loved each other all the time, so my great aunt said it to her mother one day. My great grandmother was told to have given her such a look—not  saying it back—that this aunt never said it, again. So when her children probably wanted her to say it, saying it wasn't easy.

In 1998, when my brother died of suicide, I was having a hard time with it afterwards. My dad told me I was dwelling on too much. Probably not even a month later, that was news to me. I let him have it.

"You never even told me that you loved me!"

Well, for a while we said it to each other. It was weird, and it didn't last too long, but we said it. It is a shame I had to demand it, though.

Well, saying, "I love you" is still not easy. I say it, but it still doesn't seem natural. I'm all for it, because many people don't hear it enough. It is a foreign language that just needs to be learned.

After all, don't we all crave it? Don't we all need it? No, not the contrived stuff—but we all need to know that we matter and we deserve to be here.