Betwixt index and forefinger I grasp a pen
and gentle cursive black lines reveal my flow,
firmly pressed against pad and paper as I begin
writing only of the things that I know.

 

Flowing freely with verbs poised in peace
the werdz I release remain passionate and pure,
sharing the lessons that poetic life has to teach
poetic lessons both learned and endured.

 

Whose compositions are sure and suspenseful
as written realities are soon exposed by my light,
with a sharpened mind and ink filled utensil
recording expressions of life as I write.

 

Conveying the quiet calm of inner pride
when all outside gets drowned out by the rain,
when from the pain inside you cannot hide
and all the tears you cry fall in vain.

 

For every werd that goes unheard
no matter how eloquent the speech you’ve read,
when upon you all your nightmares converge
dimming the light you were born to shed.

 

Encouraging  those who are discouraged
giving werdz to those who are void of speech,
making new that which was once cherished
with tangible werdz not far from reach.

"I Write"