Cella always had a backpack
it was as colorful as her hair
the patterns of yellow and pink
exhibited her mixed spirit
a balance of feminine and the other
she has yet to discover

Cella always let her hair down
it played with the wind
keeping what’s left of her youth

Cella walked along mountains of obstacles
with sharp edges that carved her heart
strike by strike, eroding edges of innocence
creating a curvy masterpiece

Cella fell in potholes
some deep enough to hop out of
others, that took her days to escape

Cella reached peaks
whose highs lifted her beyond mental capacity
it even surprised her

Cella walked in a dense forest
of clustered insults and light green patches of compliments
that mixed beautifully in front of her eyes
she walked on muddy paths
and rocky ones too

Cella got scared of the night
then found a way to converse with the stars
asking for their guidance and protection

Cella left notes, wherever she went
she was quiet indeed, but every word
carved an impression that left her readers
wondering who, what where, when, why and how

Cella never saw herself
she broke all items of reflection
she decided to scribble down an identity
from her surroundings
“it’s more refine, to gather things 
from here and there,
it’s eclectic”
she says

One time I saw her
I ran up to her
I wanted to gaze into her eyes
for what I hear from here and there
is a mere reflection
I wanted to sit with her soul
and share a drink
and discover the untold stories
of why Cella is Cella

When I blinked to rest my eyes
from the split second journey into her spirit
she sighed and said
“You felt that?”

My eyes teared up
my heart overdosed from adrenaline
and my hands became

“what are you?”

“I have
yet to know” as
she exhaled a dense
smoke cloud



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