As i hold my pen,
i know not of Ben, nt men,
nor women.
for its time to sit in my den,
put aside my yen,
and put it down as i may.
Am drained by thoughts,
ideas come and blot,
I persue them in knots,
taking key not of my fonts,
lest i loose my plot, and end up writing a soap!
I start by scheming,
making referrence to my theme,
for to be catchy, fancy and funny,
my personae has to speak with ease.
in so doing, i have a stanza,
I add another two-three like that,
n my body is full.
I pick on a title,
and my poem is out.
My pen just gave me my poem!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem