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Cardboard_JonesPoems
This world conforms to me. Landscapes bursting with hues, You can almost smell the colors. Benevolent to my wounds. Distorted shapes and figures Blending with one another. My solace, My sanctum, My peace. My worries, My pain, My memories, None are welcome. An escape from all that wishes to harm me. One stroke of my finger And all my imagination appears. I hear familiar voices from the outside. “Come back,” they shout, “Come back to reality And face what troubles you.” “No,” I whisper, “I think I’ll stay.”
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Jan 22, 2020
Jan 22, 2020 at 4:33 PM UTC
The Painted World
This world conforms to me. Landscapes bursting with hues, You can almost smell the colors. Benevolent to my wounds. Distorted shapes and figures Blending with one another. My solace, My sanctum, My peace. My worries, My pain, My memories, None are welcome. An escape from all that wishes to harm me. One stroke of my finger And all my imagination appears. I hear familiar voices from the outside. “Come back,” they shout, “Come back to reality And face what troubles you.” “No,” I whisper, “I think I’ll stay.”
#paint#painted#world#safety#comfort#escape#trouble
Cardboard_Jones
Written by
Cardboard_Jones
M
Jan 22, 2020
Jan 22, 2020 at 4:33 PM UTC
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