A death by a prickly scythe,
Is a birth of a new soul;
Full of enthusiasm.
This child is holding nothing,
But a sharp pen and paper;
And the spirit to express.
He may fall down and be hurt,
By stereotypes and critics;
Whose aim is to pull you down.
But don’t be bothered by them,
Nor be shaken with their words;
Instead, write more, prove yourself.
Failures are just obstacles,
That you just ride and get by;
With an optimistic smile.
So for this child I will say,
Go and push yourself forward;
To the extreme direction.
But do always remember,
In writing a great poem;
You must first be the poem.
March 18,2009
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem