The time has come not to read but to write.

The time has struck not to read but to write

Oh for how long can one pretend

To rely on the scribbles of past pen

And not visit the alleys of his plight again?

What a curious habit has struck my mind of late,

To hide my joyfulness under the cloak of some uncommon fate

Not to revel in the trespassing of a distant horizon which not so long ago

Was clouding my reason

Oh years go past but some things stay the same

For I am locked with myself in a succulent game

If growing is swallowing your mistakes

Does anyone tell you how long this mischief takes?

Sitting on the same steps that always so me grow,

I ask myself tonight

As secure in my thoughts as my mood is mellow

If I shall live to see myself absolved of all the wrong I no doubt would have sown

And If I shall die with no distant sorrow having striven to do right by those that say me grow

And every time I come to voice this objection,

Something deep inside me echoes a rejection,

It tells me one has much more room with fate

Than a fish has faced with the fisherman’s bait

Oh, I only wish I hadn’t written this,

But maybe learnt from the errors of a former close miss

So that the next few lines on a piece of paper would have been read,

Not fed,

By that which I desire. 

last time modified: Sept. 21, 2011, 1:36 p.m.