I m mightier than sword,
If my owner uses me right,
I can **** without a stab,
I can start a war,
Stop a war and a lot more,
I give light to all those who lost cause,
For all those who got something to say, But can't say it,
I help them make it,
I don't discriminate, by color, race or religion,
I help them write, I give them a vision,
I got you your first job,made your parents proud,
I help move crowds.

I m a workaholic,
I like to keep spitting ink, without a pause,
I m a writer's weapon of choice,
I m the silent voice,
If you use me right, I can make your girlfriend moist,

I m your Sunday solitude,
And Monday news,
I m the only thing you might own,
When you die broke,
I can help your last words,
In the form of a suicide note,
Or clog myself at your father's last breath,
Make your inheritance go to charity,
So make sure you use me right and not play with me,

I *******, leave the pages *****,
Leave stains hard to wash away,
For my owners who lost their way,
And don't know how to use me,
Call me moody, I can make your shirt pockets get noticed,
So I just pray, my next owner be a true writer,
Who has his mind aligned to me, and wouldn't lose focus,
I hope one day I will help him write an opus,

I can make you nostalgic, give you memories,
Help you remember things,
You can use to sketch,
If my cousin's lid breaks,
I don't have the same shades he has,
But it depends on the user's skill,
And if I ever run out you can refill,

My golden age has passed,
But I still got it,
I fight against 100 keys,
But then again I got it locked,
And the keys on the keyboard,
Are like Nas,
What would you be without me?
I gave you power

With every line written,
All I have given,
These rhymes nothing more,
Than self made prison,
Trying to avoid tunnel vision,
The pen that left crimson,
The petals of emotion,
The decals of wisdom,
Rip apart
Like faint heart,
This ain't art.
This dirt on my shoes,
Ain't wishing for me to loose,
Every step taken,
The pages left brazen,
True rhymes feel like a haven,
For the endangered species of the kingdom,
I ain't talking about reading between the lines,
I am talking about freedom.

the chain of thought
doesn’t seem to break
and streetlights doesn’t seem to fade
and the pills wouldn’t take.
the battery from the alarm clock
adorn the floor,
the faintest whisper
seems like a knock on the door,

ubiquitous anxiety
plays a tug of war
with my cousin of death,
the stares at the ceiling
grow heavy with each breath,
the page lends a shoulder
the pen a helping hand,
the highway traffic finds its way
to my ear,
and its only darkness I befriend.

I see the mosaic leaves
And I think,
God has to be an artist,
When its autumn,

Then I am feeling rock bottom,
And I listen to the silence,
With the waves,
And at times when the birds chirp,
And I think God has to be a DJ

Then I see all the Violence,
And makes me think otherwise,
But my God doesn’t sleep

I pray every night,
Read the word,
And see the next day,
How He works,
Makes me think
God has to be a magician,

The volcano, the floods
The famine,
And then you see His fury,
Reminding of our duty,
God has to be a teacher

Then a great man said,
God is Truth
And so I seek,
The future looks bleak,
The grey clouds gather,
But on second look I find,
They come with a silver lining
And I get on my knees,
This life is redefined then.
God has to be the weatherman.

I see a mother and her son,
I see unconditional love,
And I now know for sure,
God is love,

I travel seven seas,
To find Him
And now I find,
God is inside me
Who am I to say?
Who God is…?