A little dwell on the pen to enumerate an expression,
To let the ghost be aware of the dark,
Or the dark be afraid of my ghost,
To entangle a hopeless vision and adore,
A million feelings that knock my door.
A poet, they say need the cry of the muse,
But will they ever know the secret of the doom?
For every time, I lose myself into the room of words,
I call upon a thousand spirits,
To guide my hands and spell the right song.
Enumerating through my past,
The affair of the ink to last,
To repeat the same sentiment of my greed,
I befoul myself into a clown.
To paint me in the ink and enrol the aura of belief,
A poet, they say need the cry of the muse,
But who am I to lie?
I can only wonder and host a point of view.