Reading five books on end on a summer day
Writing for hours until there’s nothing left to say
She did it all for pleasure, not praise
But now her ambition is lost in a haze
Paralyzed when work piles up
Because all her dreams became corrupt
They told her once to reach for the stars
But now they tell her that she’s bizarre
She hasn’t read for many years
Held back by all of her fears
She wants to be something more than space
In a competition with herself, but she’s losing the race
But she’ll hang on for another day
See if they’ll listen to the things she’ll say
Intellectualism is a dying fad
But it’s a summer day, so don’t be sad




















