42:I[185,["/_next/static/chunks/08z4tkzvltetr.js","/_next/static/chunks/121~yigv24_j6.js","/_next/static/chunks/0jo3du-icy6v2.js","/_next/static/chunks/15cy49d~_zsjj.js","/_next/static/chunks/0..ktetnpeix7.js","/_next/static/chunks/0_htf5~kl..m1.js","/_next/static/chunks/0i6hzvr84kc1r.js"],"SendEmailButton"] 48:I[45269,["/_next/static/chunks/08z4tkzvltetr.js","/_next/static/chunks/121~yigv24_j6.js","/_next/static/chunks/0jo3du-icy6v2.js","/_next/static/chunks/15cy49d~_zsjj.js","/_next/static/chunks/0..ktetnpeix7.js","/_next/static/chunks/0_htf5~kl..m1.js","/_next/static/chunks/0i6hzvr84kc1r.js"],"SignupCTA"] 3a:["$","h1",null,{"className":"max-w-[22ch] font-display text-[clamp(32px,4.5vw,48px)] font-medium leading-[1.05] tracking-[-0.02em] text-[color:var(--fg-1)] text-balance","children":"Poetry keeps me alive (Marcella Boccia) 🎧 English"}] 3b:["$","div",null,{"className":"flex flex-wrap items-center gap-x-4 gap-y-1 font-mono text-[12px] uppercase tracking-[0.1em] text-[color:var(--fg-3)]","children":[["$","time",null,{"dateTime":"2025-02-11T23:51:53.000Z","children":"February 11, 2025"}],["$","span",null,{"aria-hidden":true,"children":"·"}],["$","span",null,{"children":"00:01:53"}],false]}] 3c:["$","p",null,{"className":"max-w-[60ch] text-[18px] leading-[1.5] text-[color:var(--fg-2)]","children":"Poetry keeps me alive (Marcella Boccia)\n\nPoetry is the breath I stealfrom the silence of the earth,a thief who robs the night of its secrets,and leaves me trembling,naked in the light of unsung stars.It is the fire I drink,its heat turning my veins to..."}] 43:T486,Poetry keeps me alive (Marcella Boccia)

Poetry is the breath I stealfrom the silence of the earth,a thief who robs the night of its secrets,and leaves me trembling,naked in the light of unsung stars.It is the fire I drink,its heat turning my veins to flame,until my skin crumbles into ash—and I rise again,reborn in words that echo in the shadows.Poetry keeps me alive,when the world falls silent,when the weight of history crushes my bonesand time, like a shadow,eats away the hours.It is the rhythm of my heartbeat,the pulse that races in my veins,the whispers of a love lost in war,a rebellion against the darknessthat tries to swallow my soul.When I am broken,and the world speaks in curses,poetry is my salvation—a thousand arms that pull me from the abyssand stitch my wounds with ink and fire.It is the laughter of forgotten dreams,the cry of children left behind,the hope that rises from the ashesof a world that has forgotten how to live.Poetry keeps me alive,like the wind that refuses to die,like the ocean that calls to the shore,like the stars that burn even in the darkest skyit is the pulse,the breath,the life that never stops.44:T4d8,In Neurodivergent and Proud, Marcella Boccia, an Italian poet in Srinagar, weaves a lyrical exploration of identity, intensity, and defiance. With echoes of Yeats’ mysticism, Tagore’s spirituality, and Neruda’s raw passion—shrouded in a dark, haunting beauty—this collection delves into the depths of living with borderline personality disorder. Set against the turbulent backdrop of war-torn Kashmir, these poems mirror the fractured landscapes of both place and psyche, capturing the weight of emotions that refuse to be tamed. Through verses that oscillate between tenderness and storm, Boccia embraces the chaos of her mind as both a burden and a gift, rejecting the labels imposed upon her. A thread of longing weaves through the collection—an enduring, platonically charged connection with a Kashmiri poetry professor, a love story written in silence and distance. At once a declaration of selfhood and an act of poetic rebellion, Neurodivergent and Proud is a manifesto for those who feel too much, for those deemed too intense or never enough, for the wild-hearted souls who find solace and strength in words. Boccia’s voice burns like an uncontained fire, a song that will not be silenced.