Alone, at times I lie back and wonder
How God made me an artist with words on paper.
The beauty of the load I am born to deliver
Remains a mystery, like the Qur’an to a believer.
I wonder what was going on in Fuentes’ sense
When he said:”Writing is a struggle against silence.”
Now I know why my tongue cannot say what I want
And why my pen is a better gun with which I hunt.
My ancestors are some creatures of amazement,
They died decades ago, but their works did not-for a moment;
Shakespeare and Kipling, Angelou and Wordsworth,
No man on earth can say what each of their words worth.
As I lie here alone, watching as the dawn goes home,
Wondering why my mind is never tired to roam
I realize that I am a poet, but not just a poet
With every sonnet, blank verse and heroic couplet.