whenever i feel the need to write, i go to the one place where i can be safe. where all my secrets are hidden under the roots, and my burdens are held steady by two pieces of rope wrapped around a branch, and a flat piece of driftwood. a place where no-one can touch me. it happens to be a real place, yet as time is always limited i only visit there once a year. as the imagination has no limits, i can go there whenever i choose to. all i need is my tree, my swing and my notebook. oh, and a pen.
Saturday 30 October 2010
my swing is broken.
my home is gone.
my refuge has been taken.
my soul has been ripped apart.
i have nothing to hold on to.
i am falling.
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