By Mory Keita
I stare at a blank paper spreading beneath my pen,
As I ponder upon some lines of little meaning.
Just beside my pen lies another blank paper,
Staring at me with tears as if imploring my mercy,
Or Waiting for some transforming drops of ink.
I pity it much, for though I would like to fulfill its wish,
My head is as blank as its surface, maybe blanker.
I vainly try to write some lines as a sign of generosity,
But what should I write? How should I begin?
I am not T.S Eliot or a Shakespeare; I am no genius.
I cannot paint on it lines worthy of remembrance,
neither do I wish to abandon it like some worthless junk.
Should I ignore its pleads and shamefully bow my head?
Is it my fault if I cannot write without muse? I know not.
I am not a writer; neither do I intend to become one.
But, as long as I feel a pen in my hand, an inner voice murmurs,
“You may not be Shakespeare or T.S Eliot or do not wish to be,
But you will always have something to write as long as you believe.”
Now I look at the blank paper beside my pen, still staring at me,
And say to myself “if I have nothing worthy to write,
I shall write what comes to my mind as long as I breathe.”
Thus, I took my pen and began writing these first lines.