Here. For you. The red rose.
Not as pretty as you. But it will do. I guess.
To say. I love you.
the red rose
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Tag Archives: writer
guitar string broken
guitar string broken
that beautiful song lacking
A lost note in love
Lullaby
Tweet tweet my birdie, tweet
Sweet sweet my birdie, sweet
When your heart does beat
For the love you meet
Give her your golden seat
She’ll be at your feet
Tweet tweet my birdie, tweet
Sweet sweet my birdie, sweet
Night night birdie.
The mold
‘That girl over there… you see her?’
‘Yeah, what about her?’
‘They broke the mold after making her.’
‘Yeah, I see what you mean. But you know what I think, I think a mold is broken every time a woman is made?’
‘Yeah, true.’
‘How about us, you think we each had our own mold?’
‘Nah, I think they kept using the same old one over and over again’
Women.
Women. They don’t do war. They do love.
And they’re pretty good at it.
‘Papa, what can I be when I grow up?’
‘Papa, what can I be when I grow up?’
‘Anything you want, my son. But please do not be a preacher, or a lawyer, or a politician.’
‘Why Papa?’
‘Because I don’t want you to think you’re better than others, and I don’t want you to lie, and I don’t want you to have enemies.’
‘So you don’t like preachers, or lawyers, or politicians.’
‘I like them, I just think they talk too much.’
‘So what can I be?’
‘You can be a creator and you will help people with your work. You can be a teacher and you will teach people something new. You can be an artist and you will make people happy with your art.’
‘So creators and teachers and artists are better than preachers, and lawyers and politicians?’
‘No, I didn’t say they’re better. But their work is more helpful, and they talk less.’
‘Papa, I’m confused.’
‘Ok, just remember this. Work, not words, keeps life going.’
when you read something
You know when you read something and you get a lump in your throat or your eyes get teary; well behind that piece is a writer that cried his soul out for you in words.
He does it with a smile.
He does it with a smile,
It’s just easier that way, smiling through the race,
It makes the water warmer, it makes the track smoother, it makes his legs stronger
And when he is done, he smiles.
My brother smiling proudly after completing his first triathlon
Scoops
When the spiced kulfi of India, becomes the fragrant bastani of Persia, becomes the aromatic bouza of Levant, becomes the fruity gelato of Italy, becomes the tangy sorbet of France, becomes the creamy ice cream of England.
Become one big bowl of frozen desserts with different flavors, colors, aromas and textures.
Just like us people.
It’s painful
Who says writing is easy. It’s painful.
It’s painful conjuring up emotions, beliefs, inspirations. It’s painful finding the right words, rhythm, style. It’s painful cutting out words. It’s painful letting go of a piece. It’s painful waiting to find out whether people like it or not. Oh, it’s all so, so painful.
But you know what’s much, much more painful?
Not writing.
Life Demiraged 