Had I not
Had I not been a writer,
Then I wondered,
Was there ever,
Between you and me,
Been a story to,
Be written about?
Had I not been a poet,
Now I wonder,
Was there ever a time,
Where you and I,
Had shared so poetic,
Thoughts turning to poems?
If I am not an artist,
I ask my future,
Is there any vision,
Of you and I,
Colliding anywhere else,
Then on paper or canvas,
Turning out to be,
More then just my imaginary?
Then I wondered,
Was there ever,
Between you and me,
Been a story to,
Be written about?
Had I not been a poet,
Now I wonder,
Was there ever a time,
Where you and I,
Had shared so poetic,
Thoughts turning to poems?
If I am not an artist,
I ask my future,
Is there any vision,
Of you and I,
Colliding anywhere else,
Then on paper or canvas,
Turning out to be,
More then just my imaginary?
 |
| "We are all blank canvases waited to be coloured, Why not pain, for you have brushes as hands..." |
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