Leaf through pages and pages of verse

The words bloom out,

Upon the page they culture.

And yet it's still not enough.

The spores of emotion

Spill out and take root.

My body is consumed.

But it's not enough.

Growing fields of rhyme,

I toil in the garden of my verse

I drink words up like summer wine.

But it is not enough,

Yet stays my curse!

Perhaps if I continue

To cry out to the page,

To pull the weeds of fear and rage,

I may rest

For the day.