I want to write poetry again. Reading Wordsworth in English Friday turned me back to poems. The Romanticism style of poetry is what I love; the softness, the colors, the warmth that it gives to life. I can only love and appreciate. I want to start writing again.
Romanticism plants ideas in my head. I started to draw on my wall because one poem I
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Don't talk about writing something, just write.
And, speaking from experience, it's damn good advice.
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But winter made it impossible to keep the same.
Nothing died, but it still disappeared from view.
Now I've decided to cultivate life inside of me, instead.
How can humanity be fertile and bloom?
Compassion is rain, nurturing thoughtful seeds.
The wasteland I hated has now blossomed into emerald leaves
And all it takes is closing my eyes to be overcome
By garden of mysteries that is me.
p.s. Keep writing...
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