So here's to the uncredited, the poets unknown,
The underappreciated souls who write on their own.
May our verses find random voices,
Singing in the street

I am the ghost writer, unseen and unheard,
Uncredited whispers, my words like a bird.
In shadows I scribble, my pen never still,
A nobody weaving tales, against my own will.

Under viewed pages, lost in the night,
My rhymes seek the dawn, but they're hidden from sight.
I pen down the echoes of dreams unexplored,
A symphony silenced, a poet ignored.

Underappreciated, my verses unfold,
Yet I dance with the moonlight, my secrets untold.
For the ink in my veins, it knows no divide,
I write for the stars, though they never confide.

I am the ghost writer, unseen and unheard,
Uncredited whispers, my words like a bird.
In shadows I scribble, my pen never still,
A nobody weaving tales, against my own will.

Beneath moon-kissed skies, my verses take flight,
Underpaid musings, a clandestine delight.
I paint constellations with ink-stained fingertips,
A bard in the shadows, where silence eclipses.

Uncredited, yet defiant, I etch my refrain,
For the stars may not know me, but they feel my pain.
A nobody weaving stardust into each line,
In the quiet of night, my verses align.

I am the ghost writer, unseen and unheard,
Uncredited whispers, my words like a bird.
In shadows I scribble, my pen never still,
A nobody weaving tales, against my own will.