The Untold

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

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