In my room on the attic,
I can listen to the wind.
I can let every single emotion in.
Everything that haunted me while I was alive,
I store in the attic, where memories thrive.
In my room on the attic,
the colored window's still there.
Still letting the sun play on the floor,
in a million glistening colors.
Everything I was made of while still alive,
I can see in the attic, where I thrive.
In my room on the attic,
it's empty from your voice.
The rocking chair swings, creaking,
but you're not here, speaking.
Everything I missed when I was alive
I miss a double now I've died.
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This turned out a wee lot darker than I ever thought! Wow. Did I write that? It was anyway not intended to be quite like this, but there you go with my kind of writing. Enjoy, haha.
Sometimes our life is like we're on an attic, the good, the bad memories are there lurking somewhere.
ReplyDeleteterm papers
Exactly. Very deep thought :)
ReplyDeletewow! first of all nice idia and again an amzing poem, kind of calming, i cold imagine as i read in this one as well!
ReplyDeletenearly :P all the lines amaze me.
kidding, theyre all good :D
wee :) :***
ReplyDelete