If I wrote a poem
And lost all of the words
Perfectly hand crafted
And locked up once again
Definitely inspiring
Never to be found
A perfect waste of useless lines
To guide one home again
A makeshift happy ending
To ease the troubled mind
A stolen line of genius
To ensure it works on time
Living through the blindness
Of the lost and empty space
As if you're plucking grass
From an oval of lost pace