We are made of what we do.

The pages of my diary are more like cities.
All my thoughts
Like roads

Endless

When I write about you
I am falling into the rabbit hole

Created out of nowhere.

The visions are lush gardens
Every word
A new flower.

The dark alleys
Mix with black ink

I am created by what I write.

When a page turns
And the traffic is heavy

Time stands still

My diary is more like a building

Every time I write about us
New stories add on

We climb the stairs
That spiral upwards

Until the lights go out

In darkness
Again

We learn to
Touch

And recognise
That touch as the only feeling.

My diary is more like a home
Decorated with vintage ideas of love.

Advertisements

2 thoughts on “We are made of what we do.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s