I was thinking
I was drinking
My coffee
Eating toffees
What drives a bard
To write a ballad
A verse
Being not averse
To things subjective
Using adjectives
Is it to influence?
To find a confluence
Of ideas
For certain ideals
Maybe to draw tears
For things done over the years
The world doesn't change,
Though it's strange,
because a poet writes a piece
He doesn't find peace
People don't care
though not fair
Whether what you write is the truth
There is still no truce
Life goes on
A poet on his own
Writing life experiences
Unique occurences
For what?
So that what?
Is it the love of rhyme?
Or just wasting time?
My mind wanders.
I often wonder
C.210219
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Words never go empty. Every round of fire touches many. Wise humans have good skill to spell this bound well.