Each time I think of writing
It’s an unexpected appearance of ideas
In the ever-thick forests of the mind
Yet another envisioning of the reality

Like a keen hunter, I firmly stand
As my hands unleash my weapons
My sharpened pencil for a sharp spear
My ink-loaded pen for a shot gun

With haste I race my prey
In my head allowing a pursuit to emerge
While my pencil is thirsty for the jotting
As testified by my shaking fingers

When the paper makes a crawlspace
One by one I pencil the ideas
Finally, I pen them on the paper
And call it a catch for the readers