It frustrates me that I’m sitting here,
Staring at a blank page.
For I feel so much.
And I have so much to write,
On this empty page.
I have seen enough to write an endless novel.
So why is my page empty?
Not full of wooded trails.
Or life's many tales.
Not even the sympathies,
Of my many brothers,
And many sisters.
My page is empty,
Alas, the poet’s dying shame.

If I knew how,
I'd write music to go along with the words in my poems,
And I turn my poems into songs.

Imagine reading a poem,
Beginning a comment on it,
Looking for the name of the author,
And realizing you wrote it.

Match my ire dear liar
Preach of a demise so dire
Grieve my soul's innate desire
Speak of kindness, light the fire

Birthed sick since first cries
Turn the fury to the skies
Poison embedded through lullabies
Born to feed you with my cries