No I am not found in the bookstores,
I am a forgotten piece of art.
I am the dust blown off the antique,
I am not the one framed and starred.
I am a pencil blunt and unsharpened,
I am the last bit of eraser unused,
I am the crushed paper now trash for a blot on my skin,
I am the lost word subdued.
I cannot be one of the classics or the book bejeweled,
I cannot be weighed with the wind.
The beautiful words my senses confront,
Cannot evidently coexist with me.
I am just another poet behind the crowd,
Hailing the queen
And living the dream.
I write for the love of Literature – My Queen
Serving her for the sake of love indeed.
(Currently reading the Six of Crows and I am in love with Kaz. ❤)