Although writing words is what I do

I do sometimes feel like such a fool

Writing words is fine and all

Just letters on a page they seem so small

And I know all writers words have to be read

Aloud to a crowd or in your head

But of the two, aloud is the one that I would do

For words, when spoken aloud are wonderful

Then they seems so powerful, with pitch and cadence and rythmatic

They tumble off the page to become: music

And music touches us in ways we find so dear

Somewhere in the soul or somewhere here

For huddled masses, sharing a dream, just waiting

Or those last words uttered, crying about the road not taken

Aurotory should inspire and touch us, bring us to our feet

Auplauding not because we have to but because of a need

The need to praise or march or remember

Those words spoken out loud in love or anger

They can make us feel, they can make us think

By them we’re brought right to the brink only to realise its jut a man

Just one man, a little silly, shouting words that are so pretty

So I’ll just keep writing to do my bit, to do what I can

And through all the illusions, hope, fear and dread

One thought wills out: Let these words be read!

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