Friday, 5 December 2014


There was a time
When pen was all I had
My tool for craft and disaster
A form of expression irrespective
A place where I composed
My medium to create
Some prose were polished art
Others were plain mediocre
Or at least so I thought,
I could never be a real judge
Lest I accomplish self aggrandizement

Perfection was far away
There was yet a slow climb it's stairs
The joy was in the 'doing'
The power to create.
Making something out of nothing
Deliver my thought process in art
This is my birthright
My actual true first love.
This is my gift

And then I drift to doze
Nap turned to sleep
Sleep into slumber
Wake me from my death sleep
Let me find the strength
My own joy from within
Standing ovations in my head.
Take away from me
These noises of pollution
I need my mind aright
I need my power back

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