Same lines written thousand times,
Ink dyed, murky, sorrow rhymes.
Rhythms reused cycled lies,
For whom I write to? Truth denied.
Books sold, stories overtold,
Price tags follow pointless woes.
Years of passion had run cold,
Why still dwell on book bound mould?
My pen says writer, heart says mime.
Mask tells child while eyes tell crime.
What else is there to deny?
My tears sold, long have vaporized.
To write my heart out with a price,
What stories I tell would suffice?
A world of best sold paradise,
A dream filled poet sacrificed.
©emily_cjw
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