Classic blues plays on the speaker,
I sit with my laptop.
I want to spill my heart,
My art is my passion.
I am at unease
When I see books unread
In my library.
I am awakened by my passion.
The days and nights
Are same for me.
My passion is my vocabulary,
It is my gift of rain.
The parched land is my audience,
I flower ecstasy
In my garden,
I pluck life
From the dilemma of the rose,
The thorn being my grief.
Writing puts my "self" under
The test of contentment.
My sensations rush
Like a cool river,
I proclaim that I express myself wholly.