Whenever I pick my pen
To let my muddled thoughts flow,
Words fly helter skelter from my brain
Like a flock of sheep pursued by a lion.
I write to watch grief float away into oblivion
Like dandelion seeds ruffled by a mischievous wind.
Like the smirk lurking on Cupid's cheeks as he scurries away
After the crime of love is perpetrated,
I write to carry out the mischief of pricking with laughter.
And as I watch millilitre by millilitre my ink spin art upon wood,
I smile darkly with an air of one
Whose nefarious plans have come to fruition.
I write so that the reality of imperfection
May only remain in dreams.
That the lame may walk upon the paths of righteousness,
That the blind may see the glitter of their golden hearts,
That the deaf may hear what sweet melody is playing in their souls.
I write that the poor may find abundance of wealth
Hidden in the treasure chests of their virtue,
That the puny, suffering and vulnerable
May find Samsonite strength in the very cause of their weakness.
That they may raise heads and beat chests
When they should be sulking in self pity.
I write so that those bound by the shackles of this world's anxieties
May find relief in simplicity
And experience the freedom of the untamed mind.
That those bound by barnacles of bilious badness
May heave a heavy sigh of hope in a higher height.
I write for the weeping and wailing.
I write for the tired and weary.
I write for the soul smitten with many cares.
I write the reasons they shall wipe away their painful tears,
The reasons why poker faces shall have in their stead blushing cheeks.
Cheeks that blush from the relief of worry.
I write to unburden minds and put to peaceful sleep
The insomnia that hangs in the stormy brain
In serpentine caution, sharing fear
In the road trod by gallantry.
That's why I write.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem