Time To Go: A Poetry Collection

Writer's Block In Autumn

Beware of the girl who calls herself a writer.

In her eyes is the reflection of a cigarette lighter.

In the pocket of her jeans is another useless object,

In her narrow mind there's but another stupid project.

Don't talk to the creature made of blood and leather,

For she doesn't believe that we should ever gather.

Maybe deep inside her, there is some sort of reason,

But it doesn't matter when it's all such a hard season.

But still, don't forget the girl who's become a fighter,

Perhaps her other side is a little brighter.

And perhaps she is waiting for it to awaken,

But until then, she will be forsaken.