what on earth i will write about next.
will i put pictures into text
that show’s my fellow people how we err?or will i pen about the good men
and women that strive to make us thrive?
will i put pen to paper, to pen
of how we as a people wont survive
if we continue walking down this road
that we ourselves made big and broad?
sometimes i like to wonder
if the masses will lend me an ear
when my pen begins to talk of war
and how it has left us with a scar
that hinders our ability to feel
and takes quite a long, long time to heal.
will i write about the dying nature?
that might not be here in the future.
will i pen a poem addressed to you
of the love i feel? of which you have no clue
or will i simply write a poem
that hints at the next poem I’ll write about?
Lazarus Shatipamba is a wormy bookworm that rarely ever sees the sun(except through the eyes of many a fictional character). His days are mostly spent stuck between the pages of a good book.
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