My pen becomes a weapon
used for mass destruction
Building worlds of life or death
all of my own construction
I can fly on wings of my mind
or hitch a ride
I can invent heroes and villans
or revive someone that died
When I'm down
I can take it out on paper
When I'm happy
I can write of something greater
I can dry the tears
of the little girl that cried
Or help the boy running
find a place to hide
But what I cannot do
is stop unmasking all the lies
Because to me that
would be poetic suicide
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem