Riding like a wave
On an endless thought
My pen dares to say
What the mind does not
Should we all be left alone?
To strive to greatness
Etch these thoughts on to stones
Just to lift the weight off our breast
Stories incomplete and poetry that repeats
Are like a cold gun
They wake you up in the middle of the night
And make you fear an unborn sun
Am I still a writer if I don’t write?
Am I still a poet if I don’t rhyme?
Or am I a mere aberration
On the walkways of time