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Poetry

In the muse of the morning,
I am making a living.
Money for the next day,
that is my poetry.
Lost in a yawn of a stranger.
Considered it boring.
But, that is my living.
My billions of income.
My cost of living.

I use to wake up early.
Laying in my bed till evening.
Cause I had no purpose.
No hope for a new beginning.
Now I rise with hope
my living.

Poetry may appear useless.
But, it keeps me going.
 

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