A stroke from a pen,
Like a history or a Zen.
It might be stressed or calm,
But portrays like something on one's palm.
History repeats itself, so they say,
Yet writing with a pen is the same way.
Every letter's repeated, so too the words,
But give it a tone, and it chirps like birds.
"What have I done?" One says,
Yet one writes and lays,
A letter for that special someone,
To be delivered, yet it's gone.
One wrote again, this time a story,
Of a young boy with glory.
Facing a girl whom he loves,
His emotions released like doves.
Yet one's never finish the book,
He opened the window and took a look.
Turns out he's gaining inspiration,
In order to finish one's creation.
YOU ARE READING
Poetic Life: Volume 1
PoetryCompilations of Poems written by yours truly, Martin Chua What is the feeling of storing your precious memories, in beautiful pieces of literature?
