I have nothing tangible to do,
that`s why I`m writing this,
which makes me jobless.
Even though I like to speak on
behalf of many indigents and unknowns,
making me the voice of the voiceless.
I believe in struggle for survival,
working day and night to better the lots of others,
making me selfless and restless.
I don`t care whether my ways or
words are painful or not,
which make me heartless.
In the face of adversity,
I cannot remain motionless,
this makes me fearless.
A wingless insect that I am,
feeding on the stems and roots of flowers,
I am ruthless.
I don`t like ice-creams that are creamless or
soup that is spiceless;
the two to me are tasteless,
Am I making any sense?
Don`t tell me that I`m senseless.
Sometimes my pen writes on its own without me,
pouring out its venom on paper,
Oh!the ink is fading...fading out slowly,
Gush! my pen is inkless,making me speechless.
Our love for each other is ceaseless;
as I sit on this armless chair on a sleepless
night gazing at the blue flowerless vase;
I become thoughtless.
Nonetheless,I`m still faithless,for I have no
single faith in our political system or leaders.
The bond between I and my pen is endless.
We are both sinless, as we escape the
bottomless pit and timeless ignorance.