I write these words, because I can,
Just simple words from a common man.
My sword unsheathed, a pen in hand.
Words sometimes I don't understand.
They ebb and flow, from me to you,
But what else could they hope to do?
They're only words, and sometimes few,
A slightly twisted point of view.
And if they touch you deep inside,
Where dreams and memories sometimes hide,
Could it be they might reside,
In thoughts your heart could not confide?
The words don't come as easily,
As sometimes they appear to be,
Not sure they even come from me,
But here they are for you to see.
I write the words I cannot speak,
To paint the dreams I often seek,
My voice it seems is much too weak,
And whispered thoughts are much too meek.
It's not the words that matter most,
A thin facade, like shadow ghosts,
They hold no pride, they speak no boast,
Although at times they seem engrossed.
A poem is just a simple way,
To say the things I need to say,
A thought that will not go away,
And begs the soul to come and play.