Locked up in her confort zone
made up by twenty five walls
and a thousand labyrinths
where she walks over and over again.
She has been playing with the pictures
in her sheltter´s walls
she has given them a soul
she has made them come to live...
at the end they have messed up her soul.
She sleeps and dreams about a thousand facts.
Sighs and tenderness turn to life under her reverie
that grows as a monument of her desires
to finally crush down to the ground
as soon as she opens her eyes
and sees the sunlight.
Gently, every night she knits a bubble to hide in
but the fear of the ending of her world never leaves,
meanwhile she looses herself to her own fantasy
becoming blind and deaf to everything else.
Knitting a bubble to hide in every night....? I couldn't agree more with this. It seems easier to hife lessens the hurt. Sigh
ReplyDeleteI love the picture. So sweet and kinda sad. Like an invisible girl
I made it that way "knitting a bubble to hide in" because of the contrast of the words, since being in a bubble is no safe place but somehow it´s the only thing that this character accomplishes, nothing stronger than a bubble. I was lucky to find the pix though it took me sometime. sorry for the many mistakes in this though.
ReplyDeletereading it again, this is so me. especially the final stanza. its like you spied on me in my mind or something
ReplyDeletewell, that´s what I did ;p
DeleteThat poem is what should´ve been the first post of this blog, in a way it´s like the intro of it or something along those lines