I can read and write,
therefore I can bleed and fight.
Bleeding through all the troubles thrown,
and fighting back with art, the art of English.

The problem, whatever it may be,
will not cause me to fail nor perish.
I shall move onward, towards the next sunrise.

My words are the vessel of my vitality,
so if push comes to shove I will rise,
above the death that encompasses my reality.

My words are a dull sword,
used to parry and ward,
not to slash and make bleed,
as the words of others over-do that deed.