The Debutant

I'm a debutant poet in the library courtyard.
In hand with a pen and in mind with thousands of sketches,
A strange amalgam of rambling lyrics
In small written volumes that lie priceless.

Burnt by the sun and forsaken by man,
I travel in the night with dreamy eyes,
Wielding the silence of a minor poet
In a world that doesn't understand me.

I'm just a writer on an imaginary road,
Who writes with white
On the black universe
Because his stellar pen ink
Is too shiny for this world.