The Poet's Pain
The day is nothing but a memory,
Yet tomorrow is not quite here.
The incense sparks inside my nose,
The rain plays a symphony to my ear.
Sleep has hid its magic from me
While ideas run through my head
If only I could pass on the words,
So I can retire to my bed.
Sharing the prose would give me joy,
And put my brain at rest for the night.
But, there is no greater sadness
Than a poet's hand that will not write
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