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.
Wednesday 23 February 2011
"I am small, like the wren, and my hair is bold ... and my eyes, like the pools of sherry in the bottom of the glass that the guest leaves behind."
3 comments:
Beautiful.
(pls consider turning word verification off. It puts off as many reall commenters as it does spammers, IMHO)
thankyou, and its not mine unfortunately, emily dickinson :)
Post a Comment