My pen's ink wants to flow..
in the cascade of my emotions,
as they prosper and grow..
as many a times, I fell the inner zeal
to write, to feel, and let my heart heal,
from the sufferings they gave me,
from the pleasure I received,
From sharing those sensitiveness,
the innermost feelings,
Yet what stops heart to speak?
Making it shrink,
grow this weak?
As I want to use it to whisper to you,
Dear Paper,
why do you force it to draw absurd figures?
When it lets out its hand to share with you,
why let yourself down by making it sad,
as those fall, those drops of dews,
from the eyes of the person who holds the pen..
Let free my thoughts, as they were once,
let them fire the world as they do with their guns,
let studies be less,
let pressure be less,
let my thoughts feel free, and my pen it's slave.
