You went to the paper town,
and left me with paper cuts.
Let my paper plane be with you dear,
though you tore my paper heart.

Sail with my paper boat,
and burn my paper poems.
It's sad I can't be with you
on building your paper home.

Paper is the only place where
I wrote and drew our forever.
But I love you so, my paper girl,
I'm just done wasting papers.

Child :Mother, what is poetry?

Mother :Listen child ,poetry is when you look at the moon and you would like to sleep on it.
It is when you touch the stars with your eyes.
Is when you feel good simply just admiring a flower or
feeling like a flower above an ocean ,on the wings of a seagull.
it's when you dye your hair
with the colours of the sunset
or when you dance on clouds
or travel among the planets
riding a comet.
It's when you're not afraid to cry
if a child smiles at you or if he cries too.
Poetry is when you talk to a tree
and you ask how its leaves are.
It's watching the city when it rains and see her sparkle like gemstones.
It is listening to the wind when it sings a song."

Child :Mom,now I know what poetry is.

Mother :What is it my darling ?

Child :It means to be a child forever

when the stars
collide,
I wish our hearts
too.

You may fall like those leaves during autumn but you can still bloom like those blossoms during spring.

Here’s to the poets
who died a thousand times
and lived millions more—
who danced with rhymes
until their hands feel sore;

Who rewrote the stars
and found beauty in scars,
who romanticized the moon
and found poetry in tunes;

Who blew kisses in the wind
And felt a love left unseen—
A ghost of a romantic scene,
Embers of what could’ve been;

Who found hope in nothingness
and beauty in one’s madness—
Who saw mediocrity in greatness
as they strive for more goodness;

Who took coffee at the rising morn,
And stole kisses with corny love letters,
Sung like bards mad as the pied piper,
Fell in love and became jealous of Heather.

Here’s to the poets
who got lost in transition,
in the world of ink and paper,
in the phantasms of poetic allusion,
in the warmth and cold of December,
in the reveries of literary composition,
in the need to write history to remember
and to those who got lost in fascination—

May you all be remembered by the world
as the pages of our history remain untold;
Melt what’s frozen, bring warmth to the cold.
Keep crying for literature, be poetic and bold.

Thank you for giving me a loving home
When I thought I was meant to be alone,
For giving me a shelter during the storm
'Til I learned how to survive by my own.

Because one day our breath will cease
And no longer shall we bleed poignant ink—
Let the stars fall as the pen and paper kiss,
Write your last poetry before it sinks.

If you can't tell me how you feel,
write it.

Write it in clean sheet,
or a brown paper bag,
you may write it in your email,
or on your tangible or digital note.
You may write it on my wall,
or on my arms, and palms.

Write everything you want to say.
Never hold it back.

I badly want to know you.
If you can't tell me, write it.

Poetry lives within me,
creating a constellation
in the deepest part of my heart.

Poetry lives within me,
planting different blossoms
that continuously bloom.

Poetry lives within me,
painting a colorful skies
in every edges of my eyes.

Poetry lives within me,
and Love you are that poetry
cause' you're turning my life
into a beautiful scenery.