Not that much to write

My hands get cold and sweat
when they grab a pen and a piece of paper
sometimes can’t describe through words
what’s happening to me

Don’t want to end up a self-centered writer
Don’t want to be known as a megalomaniac

My inner self is grand, as grand as in any human could be,
and don’t feel ashamed to say that

Don’t believe that my personal issues
are greater than the rest of the world

There is no true artist who thinks that way
Artists are no Gods, no rulers, and no political leaders

They don’t need followers
They demand readers

Hope my words will be shared
My graphic voice will be listened

Deeply wish I could help
Wish I could cure someone through my poetry
Wish I could heal wounds and
make a difference in someone’s heart

Once again,
Don’t like being self-centered
I do try to derail in what I consider non-universal matters
using my personal experiences
for example, now, this hasn’t become a poem anymore

It’s a call
It’s a prayer
It’s me wondering whether I’d ever have
my writings published…
It’s a humble text spread in blue lines, blue ink
‘cause I still handwrite my thoughts

Out of the blue
Just wanted to write
Grabbed this piece of paper and pen
and looked forward to finding the key
to relieve my pains
to release my dreams
to reconstruct my illusions.


by Laila Chris