until the sun rises from the west
—and it shall—
there’s no such thing as “too late”—
only fools give up—
and it’s the weak who wish and wait!
who’s a poet that doesn’t know it
but he who hid his heart!
with words, colors are heard
and sounds are brought to light!
feel the rhythm and rhyme
in every chest like mine!
such is the strength of mankind—
the gift of light to the mind—
and so, I reach for the sky
and rain ink on the page,
reveal my mind’s might,
unravel the heart’s rage;
o who’s the man on the verge of tears
standing straight, strong with no fears?
he’s the man who feels the beat
in every word he’ll—ever—speak!