Poetry writes me a blank cheque, that I'm not sure when I can encash,
As I aim for the sun, and land amongst stars, whether I'll rise upwards or crash.
Whether there's money in the bank, whether my wings are solid or made of wax,
And in the lure of a future windfall, I'll continue to pay the present hefty tax.
Psychology is the diminishing wallet, that suffices for my monthly expense,
They say the sky gets punctured, so throwing a stone or 2 makes sense.
Whether the throw has enough power, to put a dent in the universe,
And in the hope the stone gets stuck, I open the strings of my purse.
Programming gives me the credit line, ensuring I'll make ends meet,
When your past is as star-studded, there are eager lenders at your feet.
Whether I'm ready to be bound again, whether I'll split as EMI,
And if I default on this option, then what's left of me- who am I?
I was a star yesterday, I'll be a star again, it's only in the interim I'm stone/dust,
It's no longer a question of whether I can, but as I burn to ashes, write I must.
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