Being so sincere,
Loving much my dear,
I write useless poems,
Counting them like coins.
They are not blessed treasure,
They are just a pleasure,
Apple pies and kid's stuff.
They are always riffraff.
But how can I manage
My heart and its baggage?
Writing is a lush,
Paper cannot blush.
I'm a graphomaniac?
Maybe. But don't panic.
Don't call me a great one
Or I will shoot you down.
For I know I'm not like
Those who are born to spark.
Paper cannot blush
But will be just ash.
14.07.2017