Prena Poetry

we live in a diorama of a preceding horror—writing down stories, witnessing stories and becoming stories as this colossal art of longings continue to haunt us; it’s like a hundred fists clasping within, all unable to describe the conundrum of a human mind.

most of us have loved, and been loved in softness and terror—tendered with a life just as beautiful as death.

but when we ask ourselves, we almost have nothing to offer in the end. there was never a story written by us, only a fate written for us.

we are just souls encountering magic and miseries of the earth. we are just a soul, in the end we only want to be freed.