I have tried to quit writing
many times,
but I couldn't.
Even if I could,
I wouldn't.

I have been writing
since I was twelve.
Asking me to stop
is like asking me
to **** myself.

Rivers run,
and I let them take me with them
to the ocean. 

 Poets write,
and I follow their thoughts,
for they know the way out of the darkness.

Flowers bloom,
and I sigh along, escaping for a second
 the cold hands of death.

The stars shine; they offer their light as a warm shelter
for my frightened eyes. 

Painters paint, and my invisible hands are holding 
an invisible chisel.
Only the colours can tell our
stories.

Birds fly,
and I am holding on to their
feathers; they lose them sometimes, but never on purpose. 
 
Death takes,
and I don't try to stop her from taking,
for she turns back the hands of time. And it means
my salvation.

Luxury
is something your life
would be miserable without.

Everyone needs Peace,
but not everyone has the courage
to admit it.

The gift you haven't asked for.
Sometimes can feel like unwanted.
Even if, it is still a gift.
Someone has made an effort to please you.

Sometimes you don't like it,
but you wouldn't sell it cheap,
let alone give it away for free.

Then every day makes you thinking more and more
about pulling the ribbons and see
what is inside.
And if it can save you.

I wish I could say what I think,
without hesitation, second thoughts.

I know we have freedom of speech,
but something makes me bite my tongue.

Wise men say silence is golden,
but dead men say silence is gross.

I wish I could say what I think.
I wonder how some would react.

I wonder whose face would grow scarlet,
and who would laugh in my face.

How much do I have to lose?
Shall I just say it out loud?

Or wait until they tape my mouth
and cut my tongue, close the case.

Oh, then it will be too late.
It will be a bit too late, I'm afraid.

I always open my mouth
in a wrong time,
in a wrong place.

It is:
All the time. Everywhere.

Not because I say outrageous things,
but because it's so easy to offend someone
nowadays.