Mental engine turned on
My pen is a blur, so gone
My thoughts are coming alive
The creativity of my soul is in overdrive
My pen will bring about a new world’s birth
Where my intellect alone will determine its worth
Will there be peace or situations dire
Lush green fields or cities of fire
To write is to become a lyrical God
A chance to stave off tyranny the likes of general Zod
I feel it, the it burns up my soul
Just making it all the more easy to write a junkies role
It would be a crime to take away my pen
Equated to a soul slandering sin
It’s time, time to create
When I’ll stop is not up for debate
I don’t know who is in control
Who is the poet, and who has the pen’s role
I’m a slave to the passion of writing
Take me away then, I’m not fighting
Away to create, It’s something I must do
It’s the easiest way for me to stay true

Poetic ice