What if I just like reading better?
Can one even be a professional reader?

Im so full, pouring from a creative tap
Yet I can barely write, or create a starting draft
My heart is flooding like a pipeline: one poorly designed
Can someone help me make sense of these dreams of mine?
Thinking with all my might but there’s no glimmer, no light
Hard, Im struggling to keep sustaining this fight with my
Self, I keep my mind in decent health but im still
Drowning, under the weight of this creative wealth

I used to read your poems
but lately you don't write
you're silent and aloof
you know that isn't right.
You can't close a door once opened
you can't abolish all your dreams
you're a poet of the heart
mustn't fall apart at the seams.
Say what you can in words
they speak the message true
spoken from the heart
the poems will see you through.
A hermit's not your style
a recluse, you are not
never give up writing
of things that you've been taught.
I used to read your poems
I'd read them once again
if you would send them out
(this one's from a poet friend)

my soul,
so quick to scurry
as you pass me by,
still yearns for you late at night

I didn't believe your grandest
smile
could pull me back in
but here I am... right back to your side,
held so tight

oh my soul, where did you lose your fight?

I sold her a bag of dreams
It had a hole at the bottom
She gave me winter and spring
Summer and most of her Autumn
I left her not looking back
Standing there
Clutching tightly
An earful of sorry stories
And a bottle of Bacardi