A poet hidden in a singer,
A singer hidden in a poet,
Under the grey skies,
On a land of snow,
Her lamp almost burned,
She wrote,
She was a poet,
But she sang too,
She sang her melancholic pieces of poetry, carved on wood,
She sang lullabies with her words, on torn ***** papers,
On a broken seat, with a dusty piano,
She bagan to play with the waves of notes, pushing her tired fingers, against the keys.
Afraid she was because she thought she was imperfect,
But some imperfections are beautiful and wonderful, she did not know that.
Her pain gave her words birth,
Her fears raised her words,
Her regrets made her sing,
Her beautifully written poetry,
Not too strong, and not to powerful,
With a little voice, with a little hope,
A girl who was afraid to speak,
The one who was afriad of herself,
Invaded the universe.
With her unheard voice,
With those unspoken words.
An unexplained series began,
When her shaky voice sang her old lost lullabies,
And her soul lifted her voice up,
Her body still shaking.
But not quitting,
She wrote and wrote and sang and sang.
On sunsets, on oceans, on skies , on rain,
She wrote her heart out by singing with her soul.
No one has to be perfect. We have so much inside us that we don't know. Maybe because we are too aftaid.
