You asked me if I still love to write
I said, yes I do.
But in that quiet “yes” of mine
Did you notice the desperation?
– of half-formed scribbles on notebook covers
– the silent procession of my endless monologue
All dying to be heard above the roar of traffic.
I am told it may be fate
That ties my mind to a rigid post
You can run within the circle
but you cannot flap your wings and fly
Because you are what you are
And your words won’t be more than that.