“A poem must be authentic. It could be flowery, it could have the most brilliant metaphor, it could be bursting with onomatopoeia and alliteration, assonance and consonance, hyperbole and paradox, from every end, it could have daring syntax and clever… — Gina Marinello-Sweeney Copy Share Image
“No, thank you,” he flashed that grin of his. “I’ve been wondering what the lair of a poetry-inclined psychologist looks like.” — Gina Marinello-Sweeney Copy Share Image
“As for clichés, they’re an illusion. When you think about it, anything could be considered a cliché. It’s when you really bring truth to… — Gina Marinello-Sweeney Copy Share Image
“And so, they sat next to a birch tree, watching the butterflies spin around them. Linetta leaned back, her dark hair falling against the… — Gina Marinello-Sweeney Copy Share Image
“A coldness, nearly tangible due to its extreme weight, was perceptible the instant I entered the room.” — Gina Marinello-Sweeney Copy Share Image
“Despite its many layers, I THIRST is a simple tale. I have truly been honored by the positive feedback for my little story. As the author, it is my hope that it will be a parallel to your own journey, that you will be able to relate to the characters within and apply it to your own life. While there… — Gina Marinello-Sweeney Copy Share
“Is there any sight more beautiful than ethereal mist cast over an eternal sea?” — Gina Marinello-Sweeney Copy Share Image
“Wisps of clouds scattered across the heavens, as if brought to their place by a great sigh.” — Gina Marinello-Sweeney Copy Share Image
“It was a walk, it was a chase, it was a symphony of time.” — Gina Marinello-Sweeney Copy Share Image
“They are each a maze,” he said thoughtfully. “Each of them—both the rose and the shell—go around and around in their own way, yet… — Gina Marinello-Sweeney Copy Share Image
“Ethereal mist lingered across the hushed landscape, shrouding a round moon, gossamer swans dancing across a lake of pearl. Yet, while it was a moon covered in silvery silk, mysterious and alluring, it shone as brightly as the sun of day. Nor was it swept in the starlight whispers of tiny buds running across fields of stolen gold. No, this… — Gina Marinello-Sweeney Copy Share
