She Is Just a Back Street Poet

She Is Just a Back Street Poet

She is just a back street poet,

scribbling verses in the rain,

where the rain falls and words form

Pen in book by the windowpane.

Her words aren't bound in leather,

nor framed in golden light,

but they echo in the alleyways,

soft whispers in the night.

She stitches dreams in faded ink,

on napkins, walls, and skin,

telling tales of loss and love

where endings don't begin.

No stage, no grand applause,

just candlelight and rhyme,

but her soul is in each stanza—

a poet lost in time.