her poem

i shall write a new poem
about something i know not ,
it runs in my mind ,
faster than light ,
and it shapes a kind ,
in every small crystal that falls from my eyes,
i know in slumber,
where fantasy flies
i smile at the pages , scribbling for long
hoping i can write some beautiful song
all dat somes reeling and raving my thoughts
are hundreds of bloodsheds and merciless shots.
i churn at vision , hoping to run;
i look at pages, think of the new sun.
petals and roses , of mysteries blue
of shadows and thorns and histories true.
the paper is smooth , afresh and new
just like the shinning sun , seen in the dew.
i write and write and keep writing on
poetries, stories , and tragedies gone ,
hoping the pencil will stop or shall break
praying to myself ,for sanities sake
the paper looks up and i look in
her stories of pain, shall always begin
the end is not written , her story goes on
ages and ages are yet left to mourn.