Solitude becomes a choir,
An illuminating echo that turns into a horrid cacophony.
Harsh reminder of a dreamer who could not dream,
A painter who could not paint . . .
A singer who could not sing . . .
Come and calm this song, Come and save me,
From this anxiety, that steals the value of my life.
Fireworks explode, they color your eyes.
Do not sing, do not paint, do not dream, simply write.
Artistry cannot erase desire.
But it can fuel your fire and desire.
Let each stroke, give you sensations.
Of my hand on yours, a state of warmth and delight.
Nonetheless when you suffer,
And beg for “HELP!” know.
I am never.
Fun little Google Collab between:
- A simple poet named Nan
& my friend The Dead Poet