It is painful that am running out of words,
Am dieing already because poetry seems to be my world.
My curious pen is out of ink to write creatively,
Poetry is my life and more....

Poetry is the realse of madness from an extraordinary mind,
Like a pen is important to a poet,
And like the mutuality between an anvil and the hammer,
So as my mind is burning without any words in a furnace.

Words are now squawking and squealing in me like wild animals,
My pens are refilled with creative inks,
Like the cloud is pregnant to give birth to rain,
So as my pen is ready to bring creative writing to reign.

Culture is the total way of life,
While poetry is the reason why we can still practice our customs,
Poetry is my only reason to be alive.
My body is bitterly butcherred in the bush of books.


© Light poet