In a lattice-lit dorm room sits a writer.
A discarded chemistry book lies beside her.
because ideas are hitting off her, like a collider.

Why does writing make her feel alive-er?
Cause it helps sort out the feelings inside her?

Repose is something grinding-study denies her.

Now, rhyming isn't her primary desire
the connections form, almost, despite her
poetry’s at it best when it comes unaware
“Oh,” she thinks, like, we’re going there?

What she writes might eventually be shared
with that awareness she vowels with care
picking words when they seem the ripest
shaping phrases like some sort of stylist
she may be less of a poet than a typist

Her default is to narrative - like you read in novels
cause let’s face it - cold-poetry is as dead as vaudeville,
as buried as silent movies, letters and opera,
have I come to dig Caesar up, like a fossil?
.
.
cold = straight up

For three he plays,
For three he strays,
For three he stays.
I stayed and I was one among the nines.

Arias for my Giovanni,
thirty minutes for the thirsty,
it was over too quickly, at the gramercy.
leaving my moods in the open for a mild controversy.

Cozily encased like in a womb,
attached to you by an umbilical cord,
no matter the type of chord,
It was clear you were singing,
through Mozart’s vocal cord.

I was ready to swim in place with you,
to be drenched in musical shower,
with open skies as my shower curtain,
come cleanse my soul,
as my heart tugs,
at your tone in nature.

You were singing in the shower,
Very loudly,
Off-pitch,
Soap in your eyes,
Face scrunched up,
Blowing water like a bull whale,
Curtains flung to one side,
And I thought - *******, I love opera!

Deep down the theater is a mystery
Of the phantom who lives in misery
A loathsome creature, masked in shame
He lives in the shadows amidst glory and fame

He runs the opera, they must follow his order
Or else, a catastrophe will occur
Opera Ghost, forever shall haunt
Abide in you, I shall never flaunt

The world created an Angel of Hell
Taught him to **** and become cruel
But deep inside is a frightened child
Who yearns for beauty and all things mild

A troubled entity beneath all fright
The Phantom of the Opera, the Music of the Night.