If I could fill the time I have, could write
Out what I dream to hold, do I believe
The words I find could struggle to that height?
Does greatness grow in soil of what's perceived?
If so, how can I hope? This land is blight,
This time is stillness, truthful words deceive;
A din of faceless voices overflow
As truth becomes mere noise, and every art
Seems shallow. What is there to help me grow?
What circle could I fit in? Here, apart,
I find myself so distant, it's as though
The world exists beyond my reach. Below
The real I feel eradication start;
The bonds dissolve and, separate, we depart.
A place for my poems 