It is a sad existence, that of a poet with flowery phrases and disguised meanings Tossing out happy faces like quarters splashing in a wishing well with no bottom
Painting heartstrings an amber shade of gold lingering silver linings losing their crease in frayed bottomed hip huggers that are long out of style
Swishing fragrant melodies on starch white paper collecting lines in neat rows and marginβd desires lips fluttering and eyelashes batting well below the leagues average
Whispering notions of sheer delight, tantalizing rapid pulses pushing blood through narrow corridors finding locked garden entrances in chained Jasmine
Dreaming dreams that only a dreamer could dream all the while knowing that when they awaken pen in hand, ink at the ready these dreams shall never come true
It is a sad existence, that of a poetβ¦who believes their dreams