Sometimes,
I feel the Earth roll through my eyes.
I must confess,
My poem appears a mess.
Though it amuck down my mind,
I still feel there's so much left behind.
The ink is running,
My pen is burning.
Expression with so much pain,
Yet, there's nothing to gain.
My poems are locked,
Like a narrow path, it's blocked.
Without straight meanings,
I need to break this silent feelings.
And at the end of the day,
I only get one or two reads all the way.