she writes only in red pen
because she feels like she's bleeding
onto the page.
her heart knows it's a lie.
she surrounds herself with music, lovely noise
with intent to soothe
and maybe to distract if she'll admit it.
she loves rainy, cloudy days
of the dismal kind,
then the flowers bloom.
Fall is her favorite season
it can be a verb
concerning love and tragedy
or it just means vibrant trees on fire.
She likes shadows and black&white photography.
color is everywhere but
the absence of it shows who someone is on
the inside.
she lives in art galleries
surrounded by other's epiphanies
in the form of elephants and cubism,
basking in all definitions of beautiful.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem