Thursday, 7 March 2013


With shaky hands,
Wandering thoughts
I try to hold my pen
Struggling to scribble this piece
With a view to please pen maestros

Afraid of critics
Whose words are as painful
As the sting of the bee
I hide
So as not to displease the masters

Living like a slave
Deprived of freedom
I hide my pen
Denying my impressions expression
I seek not to attract the vilifications of the masters

My life
Encircled by the shackles of fear and criticism
Lose its savour
‘Cos my pen
Though filled with ink
Is nowhere to be found

Somewhere in me
I have found strength
To keep writing
Fuck the critics!
If they were that perfect
Would they be reading this piece?

No comments:

Post a Comment