When They Write

When They Write long poem

Photo by i_pinz


A story they have to tell
One that can teach a lesson like a folktale

With a lot being observed
And knowing that no dish has been served
They grab a pencil and paper
Cause the pages are still eager to be fed
With things which have been head

In writing, emotions being expressed
With no voice produced but speaking for the oppressed
Viewing things with an eagle’s eye
Writing with a sympathetic heart
And with a courageous hand
With the mouth shut
But yet talking about the things at hand

Come pay us, the poor, visit on the land
Am certain you shall also have the desire to write
For those who have seen the daylight
To us the sun is not bright
For we don’t see what is happening
Our sense of hearing
Is the only thing keeping us alive!

One day you shall also believe
But only when you visit where we live
They once came and visited us
But till now they haven’t written to us
When the writers write
They see a bunch of psychics among us

Rate the poem
1 Star2 Stars3 Stars4 Stars5 Stars (1 votes, average: 3.00 out of 5)
We are posting your rating...

Have something to say about the poem?

Poems you will love

Give your feedback / review for the poem

Be the First to Comment & Review poem!

Notify of
avatar
wpDiscuz

When The Tales Awake

When The Tales Awake short poem

where would you go to escape if the fairy books awoke ? would you run into a galaxy of mazes and stars and colors so beautiful that only the most innocent could tell of ? would you hide in a

Why Do I Write?

Why Do I Write? short poem

Poetry is the heat, a part of my flame, it keeps me cool, envelopes in a frame. Am I sentimental, idle and worthless guy? Feeling keeps me human, passions let me fly. A force compels me to etch on papers

When Love Is Felt

When Love Is Felt short poem

Into the darkness, into the night, Filled with despair, no reason to survive, I lay down with everything to lose, No hope no life and reason to grow,. A winter wind passing by, Touching my skin and shiverinv by., The

The Beauty Fades When I Am Not A Keats

The Beauty Fades When I Am Not A Keats short poem

The bygone art, a dead shrine; Thou not dead, thou live… shall live By art of carve that plays on and will it play Forever, timeless, in century’s lap The beauty, thou struck me a year back: So calm, so

When You Kiss Me

When You Kiss Me short poem

When you kiss me you Set my heart on fire! You send me into frenzy, A frenzy of sweet burning Desire! When You Kiss Me I am Like putty in your hands It’s nothing short of ecstasy Sheer ecstasy and