We were not children but spies
And we dared to draw our dreams on the skies
Now we keep them locked away
In a little book
In a drawer by our bedsides
We litter our plates with crumbs
And we pay the bank we borrow from
But our hearts still beat
And the little book itches
But we try our best to ignore the drum
The rays slice through the blinds
As I glaze over my daily grind
I come home to fill my little book
With trite, amateur words,
An attempt to shake it out of my mind
They tell me that they know what it's all about
As they spend their Saturdays waiting for theirs to sprout
But what use is a branch
When the roots fade away
And future spies, like me, will never reach out
Type: art.poetry.original
Produced by: The Bye
Notes: My letter of rejection
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