Maria Cameron (a pen name) has discovered a passion for writing mystery novels and poetry. She tends to use vivid sensations and various emotional pallets; Often writes about trains and rural parts because of her childhood. Still, the most common topic is emotional pain.

Education: Graduated Psychology from Croatian Studies in Zagreb (November, 2013). She has always been interested in patterns of human behavior and causes of mental illness. She works in Center for Social Welfare (in Zagreb, Croatia) as a Psychologist. She is a mental health professional with over seven years experience within the field. Her everyday job includes academic writing (confidential, scientific findings and observations).

She has been writing poetry and fiction since the age of seven. However, just recently, she has started to submit her work. She uses a pen name because her poetry represents the most intimate part of her. Further, she believes that the writer should be “naked”. „Naked and sometimes wounded soul is behind every authentic piece of writing.“

A poem to a late friend of mine

This is dedicated to a dear friend of mine (called Lucky)
(Sophia's son, the youngest child of seven).
We fought against the insidious prophecies of humankind.
Eventually, we have become phantoms; 
Beaten by Twilight of our minds.

Dear friend of mine...
We were born
To become "Children of the Corn".
We played "hide and seek" 
In our haunted fields.
We killed the light,
We broke the dawn.
Birds sang to us,
We raged against the sun
And whispered to the moon.
Still, I have never realized why
You said that our childhood 
Tastes like July.

Dear friend of mine.
When did we start to
Feel tired of being alive?
And, who put our souls "on mute"?

No one can hear my prayers and weeps,
The darkness tucks me to sleep.
Bitter tears from heaven 
Are melting on my cheeks.
Heavy rain comes from Above
Each and every time I fail God.

Dear friend of mine,
Find the signal from the World Divine;
Text me in July.
I am intoxicated with this world
Move with me.
Let's rent a parcel on the moon.
Tell me, my "Lucky number Seven";
Is there a visa for heaven?

I am grieving for you out loud.
I wonder, is there a receiver 
Placed for you above this mountain
And behind these clouds?
The birds are still celebrating 
The dawn of our youth.
When my soul goes quiet;
The nightingale will deliver 
This message to you.

In the name of December

I can see traces of silver moonlight
From the past lives. 
The church bells are ringing
In the name of December;
Traveling with icy rain.
The day sinks like Titanic,

I can say I survived
The day December died.
 
The mist came from the other world
For all those who haven't heard:
"We're gathered here
To remember
The last shivers of December."
 
The traffic lights are blood-red,
December is quiet, stiff and dead.
The last days the month was so pale.
Who would’ve predicted such a cruel death
Of the month I tend to forget?

The church bells were so loud;
December just vanished into the crowd.
 
In front of me
Are echoes of distant
Mother's screams and whispers
And children's footsteps in the snow.
No, those footsteps are not mine
I leave no trace for a long time.