I have looked at people's eyes,
Should I be inspired as they cry?
Or write something about their gray hair?
I even listen to what they shared.
I have weird, vivid dreams,
I wonder if I can turn them into ink.
Read books for twice a week,
Got no line, no poetry to speak.
The papers already dried my tears,
Should I write about my fears?
Or say something about the setting of the sun?
I don't know, I got none.
What kind of drought life had brought me?
I used to get inspired by a mere tree.
Now, it's as dry as the desert,
When will rain pour on my hearth?
Maybe it's the lack of emotion,
Should I drink a love potion?
Maybe then my pen will make an ode,
How can I bring back the old?
To whom should I seek for help?
To me, I, or myself?
For poetry is the secret that I keep,
The ink that I cry when I weep.
