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.