Poetry For The Broken

the writer

On my note are a thousand lines,
On paper, I pour myself.
I scribble words on paper thin,
Hoping wealth will find me still.
But ink stains my weary hand,
Bloodshot eyes from sleepless nights.

I yield no gold in a false promised land,
My delusions of fame—a constant dream.
The world turns blind to my weary lines,
Words and thoughts on a fragile page.
Coins elude my open palms,
Yet I write till morning dawns.

I scribble and weave a sad story,
A fleeting dream of fame and wealth.
Till hope runs dry, despair takes its place,
As I cast wild thoughts on a hopeless sheet.
My words chase stars, forever out of reach,
They say chasing the sun is a hopeless dream.

But my blood bleeds ink, my mouth speaks poems,
I patch myself with promises of wealth and honor.
Am I a fool to hold on to a rolling stone,
To chase shadows in the bright of day?
Or is there pride in penning my truth,
A hopeless romantic clinging to a dream?

Though weary and lost, I write in fine lines,
Hope a fading voice in the quiet of night.
In my ruin, I still find fire lit,
The desperate fire of a writer's dream.