Sitting on the well worn bed,
She pens the song that one day wins
The Grammy and the praise that came
Upon her diamond sparkle dreams,
But now the trucks will thunder by,
The light from Starbucks blinds,
Denying her the sleep she wants
And so she scratches at the paper,
Fetid air pushed around the room
By the single fan, in a shady corner.
This is not her gold dust dream,
But on the wind that whisper’s there
Is word of penthouse rooms one day.