Gabriella Alziari


Sometimes, I lose myself.

I forget my history.


But I am back

when I write poetry.


That forgotten piece of me

is wiped of dust and found again,

storing precious memories.


Like an old chest in the attic,

I ease my rusted hinges.


Stories live inside

the corners of my mind,

flying free like butterflies.



I confront myself.


Share it all,

my spirit tells me.


I relive old memories.

The burdens become



I promise to myself

to brave the winding path

before me.


I cherish every breath,

and ground myself in strength.


My past

is now my power.


That hidden part of me

I treasure like a pearl,

my precious history.