Tiny crowds within, Our bodies that we won’t know, Without microscopes.
The secret of love, Is giving and receiving, Without possessing.
If I write nothing, My characters will be hurt, And so I must write.
Stories always change, From idea to finished work, Don’t get too attached.
Writing fiction is, Having empathy with those, Who do not exist.
Happiness can be, Found easily and yet we, Never stop searching.
Gray is in the clouds, And old buildings standing near, My hair feels their age.