Here I sit in a bookstore cafe',
Eye on color splashed shelves.
I walk over and peruse books.
Page after page pass my eyes.
Yet, my yearn to learn is limp.
Ah, books muster no interest.
I'm too full to hold more input.
My heart passions for output.
She wants to create a beauty.
So, I write this poem for you.
In any event, output has input,
But input alone has no output.
It's sad, lonely - uncared for,
Festering like a stagnant pond.
Isn't it better to be a stream,
Giving live waters to an ocean,
Whose source is truly assured,
By the mountainous waterfalls?