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(Untitled)
(Untitled)
Earth, and it hurts—the melodic downfall of an uprising hope. Tethered by a rope, or the Pope. When I long to rip away from this house that sways, a matryoshka doll in my existence, in an instant's instance. Questioning: Who did this?
The Earth feels painful—the beautiful collapse of rising hope. Held down by a rope, or maybe by religious authority. When I want to break free from this shaky house, like a Russian nesting doll in my life, in a quick moment. Asking: Who did this?