The Writer’s balm
If Every time our souls are barren, we pick up our pen and write,
We would give up trying to be as famous as Wilbur and Orville Wright,
For whether we turn to the left or to the right,
Whether we end up being wrong or right,
In the final analysis, the end of man is a funeral rite.
If every time we sit and think,
While trying to find the break in the link,
We can either cry our heart out in the sink,
Or we can choose to pick up the pen and use the ink.
If tempted we are to hide our head like crabs,
If we are made to feel like guinea fowls in the lab,
We can our pen gently grab,
And in that moment we’ll realise, that covering us is a writer’s garb.
If while daily working our lives away on the farm,
If the scorching heat of the sun has taken away our peace and calm,
If we suddenly feel like ending it all in the dam,
We can find solace in writing down a psalm,
For then we’ll discover that right in our palm,
Lies the writer’s balm.
Ogun State, Nigeria