You live a littleprincian life
by the pilot’s perspective.
You’re Jonah in the belly of the whale
and you’re way scared of the sea.
You’re Don Quixote fighting windmills
You’re your own darkest fear
and you run away by faking smiles towards your inside
(and, sometimes, other’s).
You’re not able to love anymore,
but you feel the need to prove it.
You carry stones to the enemy,
you drain down your clearest mainstreams.
You make impossible pledges
for your nature is itself a broken promise.
You’re a blind swordsmaker
gambling on the blade you’ve edged for yourself.
You’re a dumb tourist
who pretends not to be in the Sahara.
You’re so long away
you don’t recognize yourself looking back.
You’re in an escape,
sinking whispers in unknown whereabouts
for the world is evil,
for you’ve found yourself evil too,
but not yet discovered:
but not yet.