When I am in the middle of a storm,
Or some cold overflowing,
I write the words to keep me warm,
I write the pain unknowing.
Home is in the verse
Where all the sadness combines,
I feel as a lifted curse,
And take back life that is mine.
When the winds carry sorrow,
I poetise the pain,
I no longer worry about tomorrow
Or wether it will rain.
So home is in the words
And I go away to life,
I can become a flying bird,
The metaphor flying away from strife.
May 30, 2016
May 30, 2016 at 2:17 PM UTC
When I am in the middle of a storm,
Or some cold overflowing,
I write the words to keep me warm,
I write the pain unknowing.
Home is in the verse
Where all the sadness combines,
I feel as a lifted curse,
And take back life that is mine.
When the winds carry sorrow,
I poetise the pain,
I no longer worry about tomorrow
Or wether it will rain.
So home is in the words
And I go away to life,
I can become a flying bird,
The metaphor flying away from strife.
The therapy of poetry.
