I write
when sun (is) bright
November rain
December cold (in) sight
blood shall burn
when I slash that tale
hidden in closet
and spamming my mail
jaded, grey
I, standing (as) a prey
lurk(ing) in fire
am nowhere in fray
you (have) won
while I lost my way
one lone spark
that nervously sway(s)
they call me a cripple
and say words have names
they breath, they grow
and I put them into shame
they mock at me, satisfied
marking my attempts vain
what's my fault
and with joy, they say-
"You don't deserve to write
of smiles and pain
a weak link you are, oh don't feign
you are no author, you are no poet
you are a fake,
'cause you are grammatically insane"
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