No reads my poems, poetry is dead.
Why do I have to keep all my words in my head.
Why no one listen, why no one read?
Why do I have to live with a hungry soul with nothing to feed.
Why do I have to write like I'm writing spells,
Why do I have to silence my words against my will.
My muses miss writing long and metaphorical sonnets.
But life's grabs so tightly to that pink bonnet.
A child... A child of pink and glamour...
A bookworm of old English and grammar.
But no one,
No one hears the sirens when they sing.
It's all about this nomad of theirs and a dated dried ink.