Yet not a Writer

Neither a writer as I stand far from how one should be

Nor a reflection of that truth that one is scared to believe.

Neither a muse to someone’s greatest literary piece

Nor the ink on those sacred leaves.

For,I still have stories to write that mourns thy sorrows

I still have that song to compose that sings of a better ‘morrow.

I still have that shadow to be painted, one words cannot capture

I still have that verse to write that leaves the pen enraptured.

Yet not a writer for I still haven’t given in

To those muffled musings that vex me within.


I still haven’t spoken of the common dream so deep

That attends to each soul resting in universal sleep.

I still haven’t given justice to those unheard cries

Ones in which the greatest tragedy lies.

I still haven’t told the story of this common death

Creativity as it dies to pay reason’s debt.

I still haven’t written of that little boy’s plague

One that now rests in some distant forgotten who grave.

I still haven’t abandoned the sanity that restricts

Sacred poetry the many hidden magic tricks.

I still haven’t shattered any deluded reality

As I yet call the war a common normality.

I still haven’t spoken of the common loneliness prevalent in the global hood

One we have accepted in the name of greater good.


I’m still not a writer for I yet not believe

A voice to this romance is all a writer can be.


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