Imp

I entered the house. He ran to me. His mom came behind him, coercing him to eat his vegetables.

With brazen cheek, he showed his tongue. Nuzzling my cheek, he slid his hand in my pocket.

β€œGo on, you little imp, you were hungry after all”, I laughed and he began eating the chocolate noisily.

Poetry & writing are to me, a breath of fresh air in a life that is sometimes covered by the smoke of sorrow or self doubt. They also become the sweets I share to celebrate when life offers me a reason to. But most of all, they are to me, my life. For each word I write is a piece of my heart, a thought that just had to find its way into the world.

  

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