I didn't enclose myself in a box,
I didn't build protective walls out of bricks,
I made myself a turret,
And topped it with sticks.
It has cracks and holes,
Like most things do,
But it's weaved with flowers that can peak through.
I can paint all day,
Read all my books,
And if I feel like it you can join too.
The sun can beam in,
And the rain can drip down the glass,
The fire keeps me warm,
As I wait for the storm to pass.
And it has a door,
With a lock and key,
So I go outside,
And retreat inside from the whistling trees.
27.2.16
ESTÁS LEYENDO
Paintbox
PoesíaPoems from the inner corners of my brain, under my nails and the end of my paintbrush.
