The poetry career was doomed from the get-go. My creative spirit is too literal.
I never thought It’d come to this:
A stifled cry, a stolen kiss.
With something unmistakably amiss
I’ll cross your name off every list.
I won’t pick up if some one calls
I’ll watch my back. The ears have walls,
And it seems the man across the hall
Did not hear anything at all
Last night around ten PM
When I begged for you to let me in
And whispered from Corinthians
About how true love never ends.
Your heart was like a sticky wicket.
My heart is dust. Looks like you bit it.
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