Was i born to write?
To transcribe syllables from thought and mind,
To breathe and bring life,
And at the same time
Wage war with
And those against?
To cement myself in a comfortable coffin and suffocate in the absence of light?
Or was i born to pull back the night
And paint violent colors of red
And
Yellow
And
Orange
And
Call it the morning sky?
Well i regret to tell you,
that i neglected to tell you
that i tremble.
And not just from freight.
A paintbrush- i can't hold tight.
Instead, let my fingers find letters- my favorite is I.
Let my fingers find letters
And I'll string together
What lies beyond
Clouds, and the highest high.
The sun and the stars.
A parallel planet,
And it's inferior nights.
An alien planet,
And our life through their eyes.
So miniscule,
At most benign.
Let my fingers find letters
And i will create
A line.
I will bend it's shape,
Perfect it,
And let it sing it's praise.
Let my fingers find letters.
I will captivate.