The Four Seasons
I have this pen in my hand.
But I don’t know what to write.
Well I know what to write.
But I don’t know if it is right.
Well it can’t be wrong.
What I’m trying to say is,
Well it’s a hot day.
I’m walking barefoot in this sand,
And I have this pen in my hand.
As I step into the street,
Burn from this heat
On this concrete.
This heat comes from a girl
I extended my hand to meet.
As we shake hands.
Funny, I still have this pen in my hand.
Suddenly her wavy hair blows in the breeze.
As the trees disperse their leaves.
And in an instant my body is in a freeze.
As she walks away from me.
She leads me to a distant land.
I try to go after her
But I stay frozen with this pen in my hand.
Suddenly blue birds fly,
As water drops down from the sky.
It releases the ice yet so I can move
But where to?
For she is my poetic flow.
She is the vacant space for what I know.
For what to the world I will show.
For how far I’ll go.
Despite the heat, wind, rain or snow.
She’s my winter, spring, summer and fall.
She’s with me through it all.
As I catch up to her,
I see her face, so blank and bland.
I yell at her with demand.
For I tell her, she is the reason why I stand.
For she is who I am.
She has made me to be the boy with the pen in his hand.
For she is the reason,
I write The Four Seasons.