Don’t you dare touch her, boy.
She is water.
Her eyes imitate the abyss of the mighty oceans combined.
And that abyss isn’t afraid to stare right back.
So don’t you dare plunge into her soul
For she’ll whip up a storm from the ripples you make.
And as you try to grasp at her being,
She’ll slip right through your fingers.




Don’t you dare touch her, boy.
For she is fire.
Sometimes she’ll flicker, and sometimes she’ll dance.
But you’ll be burning just the same.


A Confession From Her

Someone once asked her,

“What do you think about the refugee situation now a days?”

“Well, I’m not really following the news, so I’m kinda clueless.”

If only she could herself believe what she was saying..What she really meant was that she would rather not know about it. Why should she? Guess you don’t really need to know when… When you have already experienced it. Besides, what happens in the past should stay there. Shouldn’t it?

It’s cold.
     It’s dark.
          It’s now, her life.

Where once there was a soft pillow of warmth under her head
Now lays the cold linoleum floor of solitude.
Where once she was wrapped in a blanket of security,
Her chest now lays bare with strikes of danger looming over.
Where her jaded eyes once left the on-looker spellbound,
Now just lay there, tired and tarnished,
Waiting to fall from their once high grace.
Where her hair was once was adorned with flowers and jewels,
Now appear in shambles of dust and dirt.
Where once the fire in her heart burned with the insatiable seek of adventure,
Now refused to even flicker.
Where once she was a carefree and spirited soul,
Was now a conundrum of subtlety and filled with an enigma of secrets.

But no. She wasn’t a refugee. She was just another homeless soul.
   No. She wasn’t a refugee,  just the victim of God playing humans.
      No. She wasn’t a refugee, just lost.
         No. She wasn’t a refugee… Was she?