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.