Nightingale

Florence made it easy 

to sing a somber note,

I’ve scratched off my eyelids-

I hate each song I wrote.

To say all my feelings

 and hear them back so weak,

I wash off the paper,

drowning words in my sink.

Silence all my mood swings,

pity each ear I stole,

Don’t tell me where I messed up,

Don’t tell me where I struck gold.

I’ve bled on every poem

And my poems bleed through me,

When the notes are so dismal,

Why bother even sing?