[Yet, I still couldn’t love others I as I knew it was possible. I didn’t even know how to feel and express that love to those I should love the most, my family.
Why? Why was showing my love to them the toughest?
Old memories… entering my room. The light was still on. Had it been a dream?
It could have been, many could say… However, what is the difference of my dreams, and my memories when I am remembering them? Aren’t we what we remember we are? Are dreams a part of us? Perhaps, a part we don’t want to admit when we are awake?
Who knows?]
A paper rose grew on my room,
it painted a smile each time
I filled my lungs with love.
It said I needed to open my chest,
so I could let in the butterfly brushes
full of rainbow colors.
It is said they can paint
a new dream each time
heartbeats become slow.
“Don’t be sad;
I will be born again each time
love is watered on earth,”
told me the paper rose.
