Blank eyes on blank walls
Empty frames on bedroom stalls
On a bed spacious than it seems.
Held a light source so dim
Fingers tapped, face indifferent
No one knew it was her vent
The silent poet she is
Her only way to release
Nobody knew, nobody knew
The world wouldn't be different or anew
Everything is still working
The world never stopped spinning
Her face was blank as her sheets
Tried to use her wits
But the blaring music
Somehow didn't make her optimistic
Everywhere she looked colorless at it seems
Cups of gold never described her wins
Slowly she realized
How can a person write about something
That makes her nothing.
