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A Little Piece of MeA gift from me is freely given
Those who accept are dear to my heart
I put a bit of myself into my craft
Appreciation blesses my heart
I work with my hands because that is who I am and all I know
In giving a gift away
I give you a little piece of myself
UntitledHow do I explain how I feel
Your emotions mirror mine
So close, and yet so far
I want you near
I wish to assure you that my feelings are sincere
My heart jumps for joy at the sight of you
But, at the same time feels as if it is being shattered
If this shall ever end; I do not know
Only in time shall God reveal His plan
UntitledAt this moment
My mind is blank
My head is an empty slate
There is so much my heart yearns to say
But, my brain pushes the words away
Oh how much I want to express to you
The words just refuse to come
I pray one day the opportunity will be given to me
To say to you that which my heart truly knows
I hope that day is soon
This Tiny HouseIn this house; everything is small.
Small rooms, small fixtures, small lights, and a small yard.
Though it is small, it is home.
These condensed walls have seen many a memory made.
This tiny house has heard and experienced many things.
Children born, relatives lost, hearts broken and mended, good times and bad.
People have walked its few halls for many years.
This is home.
I feel cozy and safe within these very walls.
I get sad at the thought that I may one day have to leave.
I know that this tiny house will one day cease to exist.
It will see many more things before that day.
For now; this is My tiny house.
Volpi.You will find that the story you tell
is very rarely your own. In Lucca,
even the smallest pebbles
breathe in the warm sunlight.
Knotted stones and cobbled roads
beat out a paper-dry heartbeat heat
my city breathes in and out,
inhales sparrow air.
It's writing a story.
You are the pen.
You will find that in Lucca
the daisy chains forge fire
in side streets and back alleys.
Teenagers intertwine. Tell me,
odd flower, are you still closed?
Here we are colored wax;
the heat of the city melts us.
We run into each other, rhapsody
of pigments. Operas are our specialties.
Open up; feel the reds.
If not, try and see them. There is a place
of deep knife marks, a street
long as midnight
you may learn something there.
Valentina's voice glimmers like red wine.
You may enjoy intoxications. Still,
know alcohol has no story
and will swallow your own.
Find the sign with the wolf on it.
You'll know the place. Epiphanies ring true as church-bells.
Lucca still guides the wanderers
to well sp
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