With shaky hands, Wandering thoughts I try to hold my pen Struggling to scribble this piece With a view to please pen maestros Afraid of critics Whose words are as painful As the sting of the bee I hide So as not to displease the masters Living like a slave Deprived of freedom I hide my pen Denying my impressions expression I seek not to attract the vilifications of the masters My life Encircled by the shackles of fear and criticism Lose its savour ‘Cos my pen Though filled with ink Is nowhere to be found Somewhere in me I have found strength To keep writing Fuck the critics! If they were that perfect Would they be reading this piece?
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