I cant write, my pen has gon silent with the night,
written may be a hundred words or so,
it is sitting with silence tonight.
When you dream and it turns to be a kid’s child within.
It’s not fullfilled but is filled in us within.
slowly it comes out, in drops or with pain,
if its not out, it can even leave a man insane.
What ever it is, left is the ink dry and dirty.
Here lies pen,
without a book in my hand.
Still with the winter,
I can smell the breath of my flow,
hidden in the darkness of a lost moment,
but yes i can feel the smell of my flow.
If the words don’t rise today or tomorrow,
I still know i need to wake and move,
My pen will remain silent,
only for a some days or may be two.
Plan to start a chapter,
fresh in line,
soaked with the water of my body,
Rewritten with the wit of my life.
Stones they say look better with the sand,
One left in the drift of diamonds, swimming alone,
this one will look good again
but only with the dry lands of west.