Euripides, perhaps.

With your right hand on your heart,
And the other on your head,
In a vain attempts to block
out words not being said.

Color brings no passion,
Coins can buy no time,
Smiles cure no heartache,
Or make a poem rhyme.

The only help you’re getting,
Is the voice inside your head,
And although you’ve cleaned your sheets,
You don’t know how to make your bed.





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