What I am when I write,  
            
My mind is paper,
             My hand the pen,

The reader is my many reflections.

The most tragic story isn't the one written by Shakespeare
or Hans Christian Andersen

It is not about Romeo, Juliet and their forbidden love, dying together

Nor a man, a mermaid and their impossibility to live for each other

It is about a writer and a reader:
Where the writer has written down, in every language, every realistic & imaginable word & emotion for the world
But the reader doesn't even have a chance to read them

The most tragic story is about the reader who can not read, and in the end, the writer who will not write

The most tragic happily ever after is where the reader and writer end each other

I hope you find yourself in these things i write
I hope you also find the ease required to overcome your pain,
I hope you find in it- the strength with which to fight,
I hope you find also the hope that there are more in life to gain.

I know my words might remind you of your ups and downs,
The former being mostly comforting
The latter bringing to our faces a frown,
If you ask me, i will say pick that which is uplifting,

None of the things we write is a waste,
What matters to one might not matter to another,
But that is why we are writers,
To be there for the entire world like no other;

So my heart is open to you my dear friend,
I care about you and thats why i am here,
Remember i always write with you at heart,
Willing to share in the peace and burdens you bear.

It's been a while since I've
Written to you, my reader,
So today I should go searching
For some inspiration.

Maybe I'll drive to Carol Park
And watch the stay-at-home
Mothers pour out their joys
To one another,
And I'll write you a sonnet
About enjoying your life
Rather than taking it for granted.

Or I could walk through
The local antique shop
Where I would tell you about the
Rusty old straight blades,
Or the dusty bookshelves
Where I search for Irish poetry.

Then I could visit my
Local tobacconist where I would
Relate to you the musty aroma
Of thousands of cigars
That have been worked
Into the carpet.
A place where old men
Like to go to talk about
Their wives and the
Upcoming football season.
Meanwhile, I'd watch as
A newborn adult curses,
Burning his fingers as he
Tries to light his very first cigar.

These are all the places
I could go to gather inspiration.
Instead, I'll just sit here
On this old leather sofa,
In the same coffee shop,
Drinking the same espresso
I drink every Friday morning.

Here I'll keep my same routine,
Writing to you, the only person
Who cares enough to read
About all the things I could do
This morning, but don't need to.
All because you, my reader,
Will be perfectly content
With the product of my imagination.

he stood so close to me, asking
"what are you thinking? tell me"
my heart skipped a beat
cause he often questioned me,
stared with his beautiful eyes
as if he could hear my brain
screaming his name and love
in one simple line