There are scratches on my sight
appealing to feelings I forgot
and barely can remember
Forasmuch as I can know
something's dying inside

I don't keep dead furniture
in my heart's room [that's for sure];
somehow, something's started rotting;
stinks and make me ****** and cold
Maybe they are buried hopes

Buried really deep, beneath all
the useless furniture that grace heart
Because there's always plenty of room
at the heart for more heart and more love

And this antipoetical night
leads me exactly to nowhere
Where I can be completely alone
and enjoy of all the room
that's plenty, beneath my hopes

There is no inspiration
there are no vows to take
There are no rhyms to rhyme
and there are no verses to verse
There are no poems
if there are no poets anymore