I would sit under the pawpaw tree

I would sit under the pawpaw tree And the world would come to me. They said all you need is a dream, A pen and a pad to make it beam. But Mother, in these streets, I see, A world that's swallowed up my poetry. My books, once filled with vibrant hues, Now gather dust, like forgotten muse. This world doesn't care, it's plain to see, About you, me, or my art's ecstasy. It doesn't care about the colors I blend, Or the emotions my words intend. I wrote above the deterred wall A cry and a poet’s final call A feeling, a pen and a pad I care about me Unwavering and glad.