I'll persistently pester poetry
like silence disturbs a cemetery.
So she can paint a perfect picture
and carve out a real structure
of my frail and feeble feeling
that can be clearly seen
like the body of a full moon
that appears at the death of noon.
The pathetic emotions of a poet,
creative even in death.
Sorrow has sank her teeth
on my optimism's feet.
And to willingly walk on
is far from having fun.
My hope is a lifeless leaf
being chastised down a cliff.
My zeal is now paralysed
like a dream that can't be realised.
My life has become a sun set
since I lost my pen to death.