Welcome to the gallery of Pearl's poetry!

I mostly write my feelings away in a form of poems rather than journal, so i'm just gonna put it here
Don't expect some Edgar Allan Poe or Shakespear shit thought lmao. Enjoy reading it!

Trigger warning: I might or might not cover senstive topics like trauma or mental illnesses so please proceed with caution

I love the sound of your laughter,
a melody that warms my soul.
I love the way your words flow,
gentle and thoughtful, like a river’s song.

I can feel your smile without seeing it,
its joy wrapping around me like a tender embrace.
I sense your happiness,
radiating across the distance, brighter than the sun.

But your voice
oh, your voice-
it soothes every restless corner of my being.
When I close my eyes and listen,
the world grows quiet,
and I am at peace,
as if the universe itself pauses to let me linger
in the comfort of you

Like a blank canvas I sit by the aisle, waiting to be stroked by the brush
Imagining how gentle it is, as i'm slowly filled with colorful acrylics,
and become nature's resemblance

Admiring how ethereal i could become
A masterpiece of beauty

But instead
A black paint throwed on me harshly,
and pallete knife slices through me,
tearing every inch of my fabric

Now i sit by the gallery, silent beneath the waves of roughly spreaded paint,
as everyone stands in front of me
Observing every cut that has left on me

Admiring how morbid i have become
A masterpiece of beauty

blood isn’t always scary
It’s like strawberry syrup drizzled over parfait cream,
soft and inviting,
a burst of sweetness against a canvas of white.

It’s like the velvety richness of a crimson sofa,
luxurious, smooth, and full of warmth.
It’s like strawberries in summer,
or ripe cherries,
the sweetest things nature offers

So beautiful, so vibrant-
it feels almost intoxicating to know
that such color runs through me,
rich and alive, pulsing with every beat.
I can almost taste it,
feel its warmth, its power,
the quiet hum of life beneath my skin.

It’s strange, isn’t it?
How something so delicate,
so sweet in hue,
can spill so violently,
can paint chaos as easily as it paints beauty.
And yet, I’m grateful-
grateful for this crimson proof that I am alive,
even as it whispers how fragile this existence truly is