Out Of My Pen

CATEGORY

life

Dont think me to be your servant for you would be wrong, I serve with you all the days long, work on me I am indulged wood, I am intolerant of your painstaking ineptitude, my poems are torn from me by violence, I am here pay me your homage in silence, remembering the many lives cut down and the mother's groan, like a sound trip or expected exodus from babylon, I pray for a good spirit so I can dance, I dont want to scare you less and upset your balance, disgrace the prominent poise with which I try to pour fourth with my ehemeral stream of literture, but I have come a long way since then, now I am hellbent on my reflecdtive pen, and I love to even in my ignorance, sometimes I make perfect sense, I am talking through me, not to me that it is I alone who lets my pen sing like music even though its shadowy and dumb, I speak to you now as my indispensable medium,