I will

On the dirty land of my home

I will pick papers, hold them

And kiss them for they are my sanctuary.

I will put them under the wings of my arms

And walk like I have nothing to my table,

For they hold my joy with care

 And hence I will hide them till eternity.

They give me peace and allow me 

To grieve as a widow

 When I’m broken asunder. 

Or be blissful as the child in the pools

When I have won my battles.

They never judge me nor my pen,

Thus I will write and express my emotions.

I will write poems and stories,

I will write them again and I again,

And sing them aloud if I have to.

Or run to essays and memoirs. 

And if necessary, I will tell the world

 My joy and grievances,

For everyone ought to read and know what life is.

I will write to mend broken hearts,

Inspire the new generation,

Renew faith of those who lost it

And numb the pains of the wounded.

I will write till my last day on earth.

And pass the gift to my offspring,

For I know my genetics won’t survive sans a pen.