Flat plain coloured paper,
That eighteen years old me without anything.
Written wishes on folded paper plane,
Hoping, dreaming, praying;
Sketching variables to paint a better picture.
Gracefully dancing in the air,
I'm on this stairway to my dreamhouse.
Resisting the strong wind,
Sharpening the axe's blade;
I cut those unworthy tongue systems.
Flying, swaying in miserable,
What if I choose the different path?
Would the storm be this horrible?
A contrail was made,
The pace of my blood, sweat & tears.
Staring at the cloud-like lines,
They only look at me when I'm up high.
Broken paper plane,
It touched the ground.
I'm borrowing this from the Lord,
Will you ever grab my hand,
When I don't have golds and diamonds?
-Marsya Sabrina
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