Blank page;
Early age;
Trying to set aside my rage-
But all I find is sorrow.

My lips sing the same old tune;
Passersby stare at me like I'm a loon;
Perhaps they wouldn't if I found a new song to croon-
Maybe you've got one I can borrow.

In the streets, we walk so close;
In my head are a thousand poems I'll never compose;
But I know I'll never be your morning rose-
Cupid must have missed when he shot his arrow.

Tonight I lay in my bed,
Thinking of all the words I have and haven't said,
Wishing I'd just opened my mouth instead-
Maybe I'll have better luck tomorrow.