Who has picked up pencil colors, Such deep red colors, And lighted a little red fire, on that pine shrub: Who, O Who, has made this red cardinal! On this colorless white morning, who made my morning, lucky with red!
There's a woody house overthere.bring my steps solidly.crip crop... I'm freezing mostly.in this time of the day it's not very shocking to be cold. The weather is snowing with a box of cheer the winter have been carrying.I move towerd the woody house.open the door.light the candles& sit on the cozy couch.breath deeply.bring my guitar& play the part you like.you turn on your recorder.happily you drink your coffee.then I read a book about great hearts.it says nothing breaks like a heart even you need someone help you sweep the pieces of your broken heart.then a sudden phone call arised. Umm... hello? _ hi Kelsey.this is Mery. oh Mery I missed you girl.how are you? _ I'm fine.where are you now? _ I'm in the country resting in my cozy woody house._well Saturday is Mery Christmas .would you like to join us? _of course. Then....
this typewriter is my bird’s nest and my fingers, like bird beaks pecking away at the keys for supplementary nourishment and what appears on paper is just pure regurgitation, being retched into the mouths the ears and the minds of the reader.
I wanted my literature to spread its wingspan and fanned its radiant feathers. so I can kick it out of the nest and let it fly free with the other nightingales and take my sorrow away along with it
for I’m the Mother Songbird and I’ve escaped the fires of the world that have burned the nest of my younglings and left my with the grief I can not bare and to fly alone
these words, these words that burden my damnation
and yet, I continue to sing and sing and sing and sing.