Here I am in my chamber. In my room full of words. Always searching for patterns that will give life to a line. My poetry is frozen though it's beginning to melt. The solid form is changing to the liquid of thoughts written down. Sentence after sentence in a language not mine. Loss of point no direction. A jigsaw where no pieces fit.
I envy the writers and the poets who know the way to the places where poetry grow. There is no harvest if you never sow. So I beg. steal and borrow wherever I go.
Here I am in my chamber. In my room full of words. Always searching for patterns that will give life to a line. My poetry is frozen though it's beginning to melt. The solid form is changing to the liquid of thoughts written down. Sentence after sentence in a language not mine. Loss of point no direwction. A jigsaw where no pieces fit.
If words were like music this would be a book. But this is not even worth the time that it took. Not even a novel just a self-pity tale written by someone that always will fail.
So very fragile inside. That's why I hide in the empty phrases.Teksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
