Ink flowing gracefully from the tip of my pen recording words,
Pouring out my emotions on paper with endorsing verbs.
My mind nomadic in thoughts of this lonesome life,
That we battle and combat single handedly with no weapon; no knife.
All we have in possession when we grow is faith and belief,
And we have to combat those obstacles in life that deceive.
Writing away with my pen; I flow syllables and I'm hence labelled lyrical,
But I refute it because poetry does not require a miracle.
It's ever so lenient and trivial; all you should necessitate is a heart that's spiritual.
And the secret of it is that you just feel your life,
You don't need to gaze at life to make words rhyme.
Paper isn't really essential; it can be inscribed in your mind,
Just let those feelings flow like a stream until the end of time.
That's how I began my journey and how I'm travelling,
Looking for the mysteries of life; the secrets I'm unravelling.
My pen shall never run out of it's stream like ink,
For as long as I am able to dream and think.
My heart is my answer; my words are my weapons,
My defence in a world that refutes the awe of the heavens.
Sometimes I feel like I want to just conquer the world,
To open up our destinies with the rhythm of words.
A garden of infinite beauties worth more than underwater pearls,
And beyond the reach of the treasures of earth.
A question never answered; a truth never learned,
What is beyond the universe; what have the stars heard?