On the pages I am turning,
Through my mind these thoughts are burning,
Like a little child learning,
Never lost for things to say.
From the pen at once erupted,
All these words that I've entrusted,
Makes my crooked life adjusted,
On my note pad day to day.
Like my mothers hugs and kisses,
Like a shot that never misses,
Breaking through all life's dismisses,
Sliming pain I surley know.
But to find the right direction,
In a world that wants perfection,
Pen and paper my protection,
Showing me the way to go.
So know all that's left is silence,
Overturning useless violence,
Bringing beauty with such vibrance,
Folds of warmth that will surround.
And when emptiness is haunting,
And the road I tread is daunting,
And the devil's smile's taunting,
I land softly on the ground.
Without this sword of ink beside me,
Here to comfort me and guide me,
On blank paper to confide me,
I would surely crash and burn.
But it's here when I am yearning,
And it's never disconcerting,
And I'll always be there writing,
On these pages that I turn.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
The cathartic effect of poetry, both the reading and the writing, perfectly put. When the mind runs riot and memories flood in unwanted, 'tis where many of us turn I think. You write of this well, and with effective flow. t x