In my darkest nightmare
Poets will have grown old
Working 12 hour shifts inside of factories,
Filling lungs with poison,
Hands becoming crippled beyond use of pen.
And heads having grown misshapen ideas;
Of their dreams having been nothing more
Than reminisce of childhood imagination
Left to bloom too wild.
Sep 18, 2016
Sep 18, 2016 at 11:01 PM UTC
In my darkest nightmare
Poets will have grown old
Working 12 hour shifts inside of factories,
Filling lungs with poison,
Hands becoming crippled beyond use of pen.
And heads having grown misshapen ideas;
Of their dreams having been nothing more
Than reminisce of childhood imagination
Left to bloom too wild.