The poet.

To the poet,
who wrote his last verse,
unable to feel his own.

To the smile,
once so effortless,
now carved every morning
with a chisel.

To the songs,
he used to sing in the shower,
now a silent memory,

He is looking for inspiration,

discreetly,

desperately,

hopelessly,

but he is surrounded by a masquerade,

of fools acting wise,
and the wise taking pride,
in their wisdom,

of people who have strayed,
far from their own self,
running behind things,
that they don’t want,

And in this chaos,
he awaits a little warmth,
a little hope,
he wants to bare,
his soul naked,
trying to recolor the ideas
that are now faded.