I
To the readers of my poetry,
To those who await my next line,
I have come to aire the truth,
The truth with no paintings of lies.
II
If not for my muse hanging in fogs of clarity,
If not for the spider web of fate that makes my faith stagger,
Counting off the odds of my second thought that strangles my decision,
I would have shown you the true habitat where creativity resides.
III
The best of me could have been seen and felt,
If not I'm a drunk poet whose muse is drenched in the spirit of fear,
I could have written a lullaby for you in the most sacred part of the jungle,
But to run that race I'm must belong to the lion kingdom.
IV
More lyrics could have spread forth my pen,
More words...