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 aren’t you yet tired of the distaste:
Of your fruit from others’ mouth?