#poem #writer
My hands are pushed
To write poesies ,
That bring tapestries in my mind.
A paradise from where I'd never flee.
A place where I always work,
Without getting tired for a second.
Sunken in the poetry sea,
I could survive with my oxygen pen
And the sky bending paper
That describes every born or made ;
In the most beautiful way one could find.
This thought for no writer would fade
Craving to turn into a poetry.

© Eclogue paradise