I love the way my pen glides across the page,
Like a dancer drifts across a smooth stage.
The ink tells a long forgotten story,
Overflowing with blackened fury.
Why would I ever want to rid my will to write,
Thats like an angel... giving up in mid flight.
For to write is to project my voice,
I'd do it in public if it was my choice.
But that is asking for trouble, you see.
Getting shot for anything you want to be.
So I'll stick to a pen in my hand,
These words obey my every command.
Kitti, this is a very nicely done poem, with wonderful thoughts on poetry. You should be proud to take a bow. Thanks.
A beautiful Write Kitti! Thanks for sharing this poem! *10*! ! Thad
Very nice- great to discover you! If you don't mind me saying, the only weak line in the poem is 'overflowing with blackened glory...' everything else was celestial
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
For to write is to project my voice, I'd do it in public if it was my choice. But that is asking for trouble, you see. ..../// beautiful poem penned and shared