In a large round fishbowl- trapped in this world. Fed lies and sold to whomever would buy.

I see things that are out of reach- like the caring souls that look on in pity- that don't have the means to save me.

or maybe they weren't caring at all. I am being sold tales after all. I write to express the pain that lies deep inside.

Pain- A word that has imbedded itself like a virus deep within the connections of my mind.

Are you in pain too? I long to hear words expressed to me. any form of self-assurance, that the broken can survive, would mean the

world to me. you see my world is small but my hopes are large in comparison.

Pale white snow outside swirling by in the wind, catching light as the sun barely creeps in.

I can see my world just as cold- in this large fishbowl.

I write because It warms my soul. 

When i'm dreaming sometimes I fly from this world.

No one sells me tales as I fly from this world . No one traps me as I run and hide from this world.

But soon I miss the comfort of my small world- so I return.

I write so that I'm always connected to the outside world.