— You asked me if
I still love to write
I said, yes I do.
But in that “Yes”
Did you notice the quiet desperation?
— of half-formed scribbles on notebook covers
— the silent procession of my endless monologue
dying to be heard above the roar of traffic.

I am told it may be fate
That ties my mind to such a rigid post.
You can run within the circle
But you cannot flap your wings and fly,
Because you are who you are
Your words will not be more than that.


You can leave your comment here

Post your comment.

Your email address will not be published, or used in any way other than for submitting this comment.
Put a blank line to make a paragraph.