In summer we eat. We hunt mushrooms, and plants, and insects. Grasshoppers are delicious with salt. If you have nothing else worms are good too. In autumn we hunt. I get a chicken breast very week. It's a feast. We preserve the rest. In winter we survive. Our preserves last for about half. Sometimes Momma and Papa risk it all, and steal some grain and corn from work. That's how we make it through. But spring. Spring is where we die.

Life is so random... We have people striving for power, and others dying of cancer. We have couples making out, others breaking up. Retirees in residential homes, and babies coming out of wombs. One day it's all euphoric, the next melancholic. Everything is so chaotically ironic that it makes one feel psychotic. Feelings and dreams, thoughts and realities, universes and galaxies. How can we grasp the idea of it all and also cry over a boy? This book explores a journey through heartbreak, grief and depression, delving into the profound questions of life itself.

These poems are not only there to be read. I hope that you can see yourself in these lines and maybe find closure and reassurance. To me these paragraphs feel like a conversation with a really good friend. These poems capture real moments we all know, from the ups and downs of life to the feelings we've all felt. Whether it's dealing with everyday life or facing bigger hurdles like mental health and family, these verses remind us that we're not alone in our journey.

A young girl living in a small cottage with her grandma who is known as the keeper of the Nameless. For decades, the Nameless have washed up on her porch, none of them identyfiable. Left by the authorities and society, grandma commits her life to taking care of them, but grandma cannot live forever. As the old woman's health declines, the young girl is forced to overtake her grandma's duties in keeping the Nameless safe. More difficult than she thought, she learns their stories and is forced to write new ones on her own. Will she continue her grandma's legacy or write a story that could end it all?

When I was ten, I met someone, in a cold forest, not far outside my town. He told me he was an unicorn, and that he could show me paradise. Looking back he mightve been the snake in my garden eden, slithering out of the bushes and leading me towards temptation, but I was nine and so I believed him. When I was ten, someone told me that paradise, was not something to be found, sitting stiffly in the garden, no matter how pretentiously pretty it was. She gave me wings and told me to fly over the garden wall, to find paradise outside it. I was ten, so I believed her. When I was eleven, someone showed me my blood and made me admire the red of it. A year later, I drowned them in it. Considering everything I was, am and have been (naive, cruel, nothing), I suppose my story went about as great as I could have expected. They gave me an apple and I ate it. They told me it would bring about paradise and I believed them. They left me to die and I did. I just wish I could regret it.

Recalling stories from people we never knew. Long dead namelessly vanishing from the sky and soil. Yet their ghost remains - murmuring their tales, As they sing of their love and desires. Pledging for the injustice they endure, and seeking redemption for their fall. Turned into a story their souls will forever last.

a collection of poems