In all of the prisons I lived,
I had always the keys
victim of myself
building my reality
because what touches my body
does not give any satisfaction
I left desolation and melancholy
behind me, in that home
that used to be our castle
opening the door and pour
you wine and then your blood
I confused love, oh my beloved
for one of my obsession, the image
of a prince never turned to be me
waterfalls, water falls everywhere
but not a sip to quench our thirst
drops, salt our cursed souls
there are no tears no fears
wasteland, welcome to the heart
of a princess that hoped to much.
YOU ARE READING
Red wine, black ink.
PoetryI write during the nights in which insomnia hits my soul. Poems steal my words and make sadness touchable.
