Certainly not a holy man, definitely not a saint,
Maybe just a writer wishing he could paint.
Waiting for the idea to gel, going around the thought,
Another blockage of inspiration, another round of nought.
Shall I write with my paintbrush, or cut with sword not pen,
The masterpiece, the work of art, rather now than then.
It's finished now, I've done the final touch,
All that noise, all that fuss, it's really not that much.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem
The brush and the pen. Both are great if you ask me. Beautiful..10. Please kindly check my poems HOPE and THE BEAUTY OF DEATH and leave your comments and rating
Thanks for your wishes. Best luck with your poems