Sometimes I refrain to write, It costs too much nerves to confide, I am the easy-going type, who kept my world tight. Sometimes I eager to write, Astonished by soul”s hidden line, I am the dreamer type, yet rides the earthy tide. Sometimes I prefer the grand symphony, With rose, champagne, tympani, But all I have now is this distorted melody, Written from my heart. Whispering a simple song, This time, No poetry between the lines, my words won’t rhyme, Its resonance out of space and time, Its conscious devoid of guilt and lie. Often, I wonder, If souls ever cease to confide, Who could ever write? How sweet it sounds, when the poet sings, Awakening the beguiling truth soul brings! Entangled in these torments, half to blame, May some god grant them power to speak their pain. Be the Confided
.
.
.
.
Read Next: Beauty Is The Truth In You
Read More: Pleasant Fate
Read More: Lend Me Your Poem
