She seeks for a home in the constellations,
For her real home isn't a place she'd like to be in,
And she only wishes to get away.

She hides behind the clouds,
Looking at moon,
Admiring its craters,
Which are so much like her,
A dark, soiled dent,
On something so beautiful.

And every night,
In her nightmares,
She watches like a film,
What her mind is scared of.
An oxymoron of life,
Trapped in boxes of irony.

And if you like wild things,
You would probably like her too,
For she is a camp of self doubt
And an army of sadness,
And probably a garden of  weeded thoughts,
Which is grown and nutured ,
Only by her
Poetry.
~*~
{Because the only place she can be herself is inside her head. }
23rd of July, 2017
10:26 pm