Luisa Leal
Bio
I like to think of myself as a closet poet sometimes.
Stories (1/0)
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I can drown myself in an oasis of everlasting bliss far from genuine in even the slightest of manners. I can't begin to picture genuine bliss and happiness for I have never experienced such an imaginary concept. I’ve always imagined that happiness was only found in the arms of another man or women. Happiness as far as I was concerned was a thing very rare to be found without a lover. Or at least that was what my mother always told me, but I wondered how she could ever say such things. After all, my father hadn’t been around for as long as I could remember. Although, if I fixate long and hard enough, I can remember to the days where my height was the equivalent to the height of my mothers blushed knees. And I could remember faintly being picked up in the arms of the man who was once my father. A man who, with bright green eyes and a crooked smile, lifted me high in the air, erupting an exciting feeling in the pit of my stomach, etching not to put me down under any circumstances. Where had the days gone by?
By Luisa Leal6 years ago in Poets