Writers make ink flow, like rivers carve the landscape to tell its story. Advertisements
Creativity runs through her veins and pumps the heart with art-of-life.
Write the words that let you fly and set yourself free to become the flight.
Brushes glide across canvases to paint stories as pens draft paintings
Just as rivers carve, I found my creative stream and let the words flow.
My words are the leaves of winter: gone. Not seen or heard or read. I’m bare.
There they are: All words. I can see them at night up in the sky like stars.
I write the words that draw you close and pull you through fears of love, hate, … You.