Stay abreast to my words,
Pay attention and never return for clarity,
Like a soul baptized in bipolar disorder.
You shall not hum a sorrowful hymn,
On the yuletide when I couldn't pen words to paper.
For every myopic soul,
Lacing their sight on the broken lens,
On the fortnight of my muse,
Do not claim your eyes fail you to spree on my diction,
As every soul will find the solace their wounds need to heal up.
To all who grew the mandrake root of sickness,
That they are naturally ugly from the depth of their soul,
Well, when the spring comes,
Take a look at the reflection of your own self,
Perhaps, you will see the beauty that lies within the new season.
My message to the mind blowing beauties,
Do not be buried in the art of your imaginations,
And do not be blown to the other side of your beauty,
Making the opportunity slide over,
But make use of every bit, and roll on.
Most importantly, to my fellow writers,
Poets and poetess.
Always worship your muse, salute your pen,
And carry the tides that flow from every word,
Because everything in life happens in reflection to our commitment.
Our adherence to the warnings,
To the rules, to life and to all shades of fear.
Life is a game, we play by the rules,
Know the rules, and play to stay relevant.