I looked up at the vertical structure,
long, high, not a single rupture,
the strong, dark, cuboidal bricks.
I thought my mind was playing tricks.
It was a wall,
a wall, that's all.
My right, my left, two walls, the same,
behind me was another, a square frame.
I cursed, I kicked, and I punched.
Holding my bruised fist, I scrunched.
I jumped high and I kept jumping,
I sat down, leaning, my shoulders slumping.
With my bare hands I dug the land,
my nails filled with dirt and sand.
There was no escape;
I looked up at the blue sky of square shape.
I settled there, I don't know how long,
inside the four walls, I was no more strong.
It was supposed to be chilling and scary,
but what terrified me was that I felt the contrary,
Then one day, I found a door,
The sad part was, I didn't need it anymore,
I loved the walls, and their dark shades,
I loved the strong, mighty, brick braids.
It was a promise of protection,
It was my cave, my section,
and It was my comfort hall.
Four walls, that's all.
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Thoughts of a Juvenile
PoetryWords are sharper than knife they say. Yes it is true. Some perfectly moulded good words can both make and break a heart easily. A poem is a group of such perfectly moulded words given wings to fly. They fly through the mind and heart easily. A hob...
