No I am not a poet
I am the poem itself
My life is the alphabet
My spirit is the shelf
My voice is the rhyme
Sometimes it is scared
Chained by hands of time
Lost and hardly heard
A total scribble a sigh
Thoughts mad in head
They don't want to die
They want to live instead
For the lines not yet gone
I hope they rightly stand
And end perfectly done
To fall on the right hand

∴ Lyna Salman