"You should be a poet,"
They said to me
In a darkened room
One Friday night
I smiled and said
"Maybe I should"
Deep down I knew
I always would
But at the time,
I did not speak
The words that fell
Upon my lips...
So looking back
Hear my decree,
"That we are all masters
Of poetry"
Only those that turn,
To pen and ink
Are those condemned
To always think
To live in visons,
To fantasize,
Words the burden
Our voice must bear
Whilst their art forms
On lifes canvas...
"The white of paper
A poor substitute."
Apr 15, 2013
Apr 15, 2013 at 8:52 AM UTC
"You should be a poet,"
They said to me
In a darkened room
One Friday night
I smiled and said
"Maybe I should"
Deep down I knew
I always would
But at the time,
I did not speak
The words that fell
Upon my lips...
So looking back
Hear my decree,
"That we are all masters
Of poetry"
Only those that turn,
To pen and ink
Are those condemned
To always think
To live in visons,
To fantasize,
Words the burden
Our voice must bear
Whilst their art forms
On lifes canvas...
"The white of paper
A poor substitute."
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