breaths weren't meant to be held
like beliefs and everything else
they were fleeting
one by one
she let them flow
There is an order to everything that’s happening in this world. If we observe deeply while we go with its flow, we see that it all makes sense.
Like words at the tip of a pen, we are being written. This flow is what I call poetry of life. It’s full of juxtapositions, synchronicities, and epiphanies.
We say that we can’t write poems but the irony is that we breathe, and our breath or life is poetry. We are poetry.