Poet

The words we speak
Makes trouble sneak
And as the clock ticks
Their momentum picks
To the peak.

So many words to shuffle
But not in a scuffle

Too many lines to read
Enough for the soul's need
Confident and wise
Makes the lowly rise. 

Words that peck-
A needle in the neck. 

Many are the critics
But we utter no tricks
The path is narrow
Just as Jack is Sparrow.

Tall is how we stand
All we get is an upperhand.

So as we hold our pens
Let's strive to mend the bend
To the end

artlyric

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