writing – UBeCute

There are only 26 letters in the English alphabet, yet—when stitched into words—they offer an unbounded treasure trove of literature. In many ways, literature is our greatest gift—and perhaps our truest legacy.

Words enthrall me with their power. Empires rise and fall, but the muscle of language outlives them. Words can cut deeper than daggers, spark revolutions, rally armies, and kindle love in the emptiest of hearts. They shape our deepest beliefs—and just as easily, they can shake them. They can disillusion.

To me, poetry isn’t reserved for the chosen few. We should all nurture a daily habit of writing—it offers a much-needed emotional detox; a way to unburden the mind.

Writing poetry is deeply personal. But when the work is polished, a poem becomes like a shiny apple. Who can resist it?

You offer your deepest secrets, your most vulnerable feelings—and your reader accepts it without judgment. In that quiet exchange, something meaningful passes between two strangers: a shared experience, a quiet conspiracy of love.

While there are endless technicalities to writing a good poem, the most important, in my opinion, is honesty. Being honest with yourself—and having the courage to flaunt that honesty is the hardest part of writing.

It took me ten years to write these pieces. In the last few months, I sifted through my poetry book and chose the ones that stayed with me, and polished them for appeal. The poems in this collection come straight from my heart. They are, I hope you’ll agree, almost raw in their honesty.

I hope you find a piece that resonates with you. And if you do, I invite you to take a bite.

So if you’re ready, grab your coffee, crack open a beer, or pour yourself a glass of wine—and pour into your favorite book of poems.

I sold my little sister,
When I was seven and she a wailing two
She kept us up with cries all night,
Her tangled hair and clumsy walk,
Her yellow dress, and squeaky shoes.

My mother made me watch over her,
I rather go out and play,
So one day at the neighbor’s farm,
I sold my burden for a puppy white as day,

But by evening my morning cheer was gone,
My little puppy too heavy to carry, too little to play,
Tiny hands curled into sweaty fists,
As I wondered, “What would they do, what would they say?”

Was it too late to change my mind?
“But a sale is a sale, no returns”
Chided the neighbor with the toothy smile”,
With head sunk down into my toes,
I walked the puppy back to home.

With teary eyes I rang the doorbell,
And looked into my Mother’s frowned forehead,
She greeted me with gushing kisses and warm embrace,
“Where have you been all day, my child?”

At the hearth a fire kindled,
And my little sister played beside,
Giggles and laughter floated the room,
and a tiny tear escaped my eyes,

Decades have passed since that day,
Now Tatjana has kids older than two,
But I can’t stop thanking the kind neighbor,
Who stopped by to return my sister soon after I made the sale.

And many more decades shall pass,
Before I forget the day when I almost sold my sister,
I was seven and she a wailing two.