A dark brown almost black desk,
Over a decade old,
Sat in my room
Over a decade old,
Sat in my room
Serving as everything
My little brain could imagine at nine;
A spaceship rocketing through galaxies
A tower with a balcony
A tower with a balcony
A little shop where my sister and I sold 'Magic Water'
A stage for performances
A carriage drawn by horses.
A dark brown almost black desk,
Over two decades old,
Over two decades old,
Sits in my room
Decorated with trinkets
Pieces of my personality
My colourful potted plants
Too many candles
Too many candles
Letters
Feathers
Books
Pictures
Pebbles.
I sit here, fabricating tales
Of sorrow and joy,
Of sorrow and joy,
Creating worlds far and beyond
Stitching feelings together;
Calling them Poetry
Dreaming of dragons and stardust
Flying through the clouds almost like a Raven
So when The Mad Hatter asks
‘Why is a raven like a writing desk?’
‘Why is a raven like a writing desk?’
Looking right into my eyes
With his glassy dazed gaze,
I whisper,
'Because it can be anything.'