Writing

They called him a legend, but legends don't bleed—and I watched Diogo Jota bleed for his game. It wasn't just the goals, trophies or the crowd—It was what he gave when no one was watching.

This place held nightmares. Its beauty was extraordinary. Something straight out of a movie. The water was jet black, so that when the sun was setting you could see its orange hues reflecting on the water.

I’ve been smiling. And smiling– because that's the only way to show I'm fine. But behind that smile lives a storm I don't speak about. The type of storm that threatens to destroy everything in its way. Yet small raindrops just come out.

It was playtime, then pressure.  All gone in a blink of an eye. The girl’s smile weaved stories, soft as a flowing stream. She screamed in pure delight as her uncle threw her into the sky.

Each problem, each issue, each time 

I hope you change, I take the blame 

Pretending I’m okay, I’m fine 

But in the end, you stay the same 

O little blackbird,

Why do you hide in the dark?

Are you waiting for something?

Waiting for a spark?

O little blackbird,