It’s her bewitching attention to detail.
The smallest score in the driftwood of my so-called mother tongue.
She may be young, in some respects aren’t we all?
It’s perplexing that we so often forget.
The nature of “life”, of being alive; trapped in the net.
Children don’t listen, well why should that change…
People never grow up, it’s assuredly strange.
We’re too superstitious to feed the birds from a safe distance.
Force-fed instant in lieu of any instances of reality.
I’ve aspirations of being a writer, though the road ahead is a long one.
I have always been a writer; I would choose to be a strong one.
Or just for fun, but that’s not trying very hard.
I worry I’m not witty enough to be written in greeting cards.
Then I remember, that’s not my vocation.
I hope I can be entertaining, not lost in translation.
I am a child of technology.
My roar is mighty.
Only, know that when you hear it.
I’ve exaggerated, slightly.