I may not be known ever
to my own human species
may be never with these ideas,
Of which my mind is pregnant.
Or shall I change my ink to crowd flattery?
Write love, politics, God or adultery?
For i think i have arrived little too soon,
To deliver what my pregnant mind had concieved.
Or shall I borrow ink from traders of words
To delay my going back?
And find myself standing in a queue,
Waiting to be applaused like a trader's jack.
or shall I marry?
©Naz Rat
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