We do wonder at times,
About the lack of wonder.
In the tales of our living,
In the words when we die.
Wise perhaps was one,
Who wrote for himself only.
A satisfaction of paramount,
Felt in more jerks than smooth rides.
We crave for the galleries,
For the audience to cheer us.
Have we lost our midas touch,
One which makes our own soul applaud?!
Who are they to scare us,
From our bread and butter in full.
They come and go by dozens,
We are unique and shall remain so.
Far away from the limelight,
Lying in the bliss of our shining mind.
We are our own gifts to mankind,
A pen and thought being our shrine.
Appreciate the ink connected thought,
Live the life of oft broken start.
The thrill is in front of your eyes,
Strive to hold writing as your first prize.
