Compulsion

You may bombard

Me with words, still

I will write my verse.

Saplings will surface

From the frame of

The butchered earth.

Trees will throw up

Fruits and flowers,

No matter what.

Good or bad, wrong or right,

I cannot not write,

My chef-d'oeuvre is still

Waiting inside, if I'm destined,

or condemned, accursed or

blessed, I have no clue,

I know my thoughts will

bloom through the humblest

of words, false or true.