You are a songwriter you say,
Leaded pencil in hand for graphite thoughts –
Noting notating circumambulated rhymes,
Dotting auditory pixels in meters.

You write, a verdant song –
Creeping bougainvillea of words
To adorn an idealistic wall –
For a spacious voice,
With room for dimensionality?

Why not sing me your song, songwriter?
The airwaves will not protest to carry your
Chorded pollen and worded feathered pappus.
Or arenโ€™t you yet tired of the distaste:
Of your fruit from othersโ€™ mouth?



12 thoughts on “Songwriting”

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