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Online and Beauty


Journey Into The Voice Of A Stranger

A remarkably insightful and beautifully written expression of emotion. Fiorella is a gifted writer and a beautiful soul.

Fiorella Giordano

8:25 A.M. in speed of steel and train coming, coffee in hand and 30 minutes of longing to Seattle. Every face is a stranger, and every voice cracks a silence. I wait… for breath and vibration. Each voice tells a story, heart and soul- survival.

I withdraw into my thoughts, I am listening… I am lost… in the listening, simultaneous wanderings, coffee, and the music of these people’s ease and labor. Souls thriving and absent. And I am thinking about my youngest nephew, whose depths hide me, how his little peace hides me, all of his 17 months staring at me. He is dark space and fresh stars, in an unborn morning.

I remember I am anxious. I brush it away. I look over my shoulder, there is a tiny rainbow breathing in between clouds. I do not want to believe, today. I am tired.

The physics of all these…

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“There’s No Place Like Home” – Clicked My Stilettos Against The Sidewalk.

from maybe to almost


So it’s that time of year again and once again I have moved interstate (actually this was over a month ago but I’ve been shockingly busy)… Thus is the life of the perpetual nomad.

I place the blame (or perhaps the gratitude) for my gypsy soul firmly at the feet of my father, if much of ones nature is hereditary then he and I make the nature vs nurture argument utterly irrelevant. When people ask me about my childhood home my first response is “Which one?”.

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Love the hopeless romantic in you, Chrissy. Beautiful writing!

Christina Strigas

The line up for free coffee
is growing daily up until
they too
take away the free love.
Not something I am unaccustomed to
all I crave is
the surrender to your clever ways
play me anyway
I’m game
raising flags at red lights
stopping my heart from beating
to feel yours
hiding away under the life machines
holding on to technology
like doctors
who are poets in their own way
like us
saving lives
with words.
It seems redundant to write
how you
have the words
I want whispered in my ear
you have the hands
caressing my skin
and all the other ordinary words
poetry stems from
but ’tis true. Yes.
Shakespeare is in love again.

I found these words scattered
around from six in the morning
where my notebook lay empty.
I raise my love to you
and bore you to death
with my obsessions
and that…

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I need it more

Christina Strigas

In the midst of the journey
to your own soul
you forgot about the birds
in the middle of winter.
Tell me to wake up
when I don’t see the ugliness
in others
it’s your major fucking flaw
he says
yet this is what I love the most
about you.
All the things
I’ve wanted to hear
you tell me now
as I babysit the old
never the right time to love me
you break me apart
year after year
with alliterations and similes
to soothe my aches.
Get out of bed and love me
he continues his monologue
I whisper
come here and love me
I need it more
but he can’t hear me.

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