by Bob Dougherty
Compelled to tell of my life so unfair,
mangled by memories my pen I’d grab
and into my harrowed heart deeply stab.
A pen can drain pain raining feigned despair
and smear teary blood blots for all to share
weeping woeful words of my life so drab.
Yet, why plunge a pen through a crusty scab,
when all wear wounds of their own craving care?
I'll caress my pen with my mind and heart
and its ink, like blood will bear words alive.
My fate is mortal, my pen transcends time
and freed from my grasp my thoughts will impart
beyond mortal limits where they can thrive
speaking to searchers seeking lines sublime.
Compelled to tell of my life so unfair,
mangled by memories my pen I’d grab
and into my harrowed heart deeply stab.
A pen can drain pain raining feigned despair
and smear teary blood blots for all to share
weeping woeful words of my life so drab.
Yet, why plunge a pen through a crusty scab,
when all wear wounds of their own craving care?
I'll caress my pen with my mind and heart
and its ink, like blood will bear words alive.
My fate is mortal, my pen transcends time
and freed from my grasp my thoughts will impart
beyond mortal limits where they can thrive
speaking to searchers seeking lines sublime.
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