— 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.