Who is she anyway?
A state of blank numbness crept upon her,
She wrote one sad poetry upon another,
Her soul fought with her own soul,
It was just like bat and bowl,
Not fit for the both of them,
The system created mayhem,
Yet, it was made to function,
Slowly crossing each junction,
Hoping to stop and relax one day,
Until then not a word she’d say,
She wants no words but blank pages,
Those that’ll be useful to the ages,
After all, everyone wants to leave behind for the next generation, isn’t it?