Songs. Poem by Peter Vealey

I`m not rich, I`m not poor.
But I`d like to know more.
We all realize do we?
It`s comparatively,
Up to us,
Our self-inflicted confines.
Equals, well yes and no, oh!
But as the songs spin
Jarring!
It`s once again you`s
In my soul.
Even your greatest love,
Can leave cold.
Old, yet so young.
Stagnating in bare rooms.
Hardly hear a sigh,
And as my words seep.
Through and out so quickly of
You,
Like an awful medicine.
Necessarily, no real use.
Now solitary must go.
For the songs getting to (be) ,
The end.