So many words I want to say
but my tongue denies me of it all,
they cleaves to the roof of my buccal cavity.
So many lives I want to save through the ink dripping from my pen,
but I don’t know how to be fearless and brave.
So many battles I want to win,
but it seems my hands frail and sword blunt.
I will try utter words to the dying souls,
souls who crave to hear living words to live,
cause I haven’t taught my tongue to speak lies but truth to break through life’s shackles.
I will train my heart to be fearless and brave,
To unrobe the robe of fears from sackless beings
who had lived all their days bounded by the fetters of phobia.
Oh! what a great feat that would be.
I’ll train my hands to win battles to learn the swiftness of a sword,
so as to slay the the sequel of melancholy.
So many great things I want to achieve,
But how do I achieve these feats with me just sitting and resting my chin with with the palm of my hands.
� Modest King

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