I used to write frequently out of love lost.
Now I write out of rights gained.
The lights strained, as it were
Will luminosity comes the responsibility of being that fire’s bearer,
And there’s no greater terror of learning things against the status quo.
I write to simply get these thoughts out my mind,
A sort of paradoxical task which binds,
The notion that this loose assortment of entries is personal,
With the idea that I’d love the whole were to read it,
I have a thick command of the English language at my arsenal,
But I’m afraid of how these goods will be meted,
So I treat it, as some merchandise from my mind’s ship yard,
Ready to be disseminated,
But usually I’m just glad I made it,
Glad I made it through
Another small literary victory.
Removing the tangles from overworked neurons,
And investing in their peace like treasures,
Displayed at world museums for interested parties to learn from,
I’m glad I’ve earned them.
I’m rich I guess.