The ink about the ball tip.
Dances to the beat of my garrulous pen.
Thoughts flying about, I can hardly get a grip.
I retire to my anchor after a few trials of ten.
Despair meanders into my bossom.
Fears sang the songs that scares
But then I remembered, He’ll make me blossom.
My anchor won’t let me sink in this torment well.
We all run after vanity without direction.
Diverse cravings and different forms of it, we’ve sought for.
In this folly of confusion, we all seek motivation.
Something to hold onto, a rope or perhaps an anchor.
Your anchor might be the two rivers meeting in her below,
Another man declares his as the fumes from that burning bark of coke.
Have faith and stay true to it fellow,
That’s what your anchor deserves, not a heart that’s cloaked
Oni Remi John