The pencil
Quickens pace as my
Head is clouded with ideas.
The pen is my idol,
I bow to its every commanding stroke.
Poems ride my train of thought,
Into the grand station of my brain,
Whispering excitedly about the travel yet to come.
The keyboard taps out
The message I want to share
Onto a screen of white blankness are my ideas printed,with care.
All of these things are happening now,
As you can clearly see,
Now a simple question:
Am I writing poems
Or are they writing me?
