I squeeze the ink in my veins to pen my pain with precision writs/

Avoiding smears for ones’ to vision the skits/

Of the Poet’s blood that flood the perplexed eyes that consume the pain like grits/

Let the ink dribble like the New York Knicks/

For it to paint the picture for slick definition for a better taste of it’s message,

Have a lick/

Let the picture be the entrance to a poet’s pupils/

If the visuals happens to smear,

he might’ve just pen down the sentimental/

The ink is cannibal to any disease that approach the mental/

Gets rid of the thoughts of a cynical for a better reach to the pinnacle/

Mentally free,

when the ink is written between the lines/

Sublime wings is created,

impatiently waiting for chains to dine/

And not a single dime is spent when poets write their freedom/

Every piece of weight is lifted with every emotion distributed/

Makes you feel like you’re living like a kid again, fearless/

And it’s one thing that life cannot do,

take the poet’s pen/

If attempted,

it’ll be a deadly sin/

With no remorse,

life will get baptized in A Poet’s Expression/