Monday, November 30, 2015

Hilary D Zamora writes and paints

"As I gazed at her in wonder and longing, the razor sharp thorns inside her began to puncture through her skin leaving tiny holes from which crimson droplets were born. It was as if her facade of perfection wilted and disintegrated and showed her inner damage right before my very eyes, as quick as a gunshot in the ghetto. You could almost hear her fracturing porcelain, pop, pop, pop. Without hesitation I approached her when flinching seconds before I couldn't bring myself to do so. Her name was Phoenix and we were a result of fate or destiny." ~Hilary D Zamora

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