In a world of passports that take ages,
In a society of techtouch and airtalk,
In a land of miles,
I choose to travel,
Miles after miles,
In the ink of my pages.

From the sycamore to the most horrific bridges,
From a rotten society to civilization,
From dreams to reaps,
I choose to travel,
Path after path,
In the ink of my pages.

When I cannot turn,
When I can run nowhere,
When I want to hide,
I choose to travel,
Thick after thick,
In the realm of my pages.

Young or old, male or female,
Dear, make yourself easy but tough,
Be a bridge to people's destinations but only if it doesn't cut out a part of you, it's called helping. Helping doesn't care whether your 'walk on' is to stay or pay. Doesn't cut out opportunists from real. Easy, if you can hold. Better if you can sustain in it, but help out regardless.

And one day, when you've tried enough,
When you have said sorry again and again,
fly off like a bird and hide in the thicks,
And only let out your song to the world.

When a poet gets tired, she never lets go,
When a poet feels stabbed, she never stabs herself,
When a poet is worked up, she never says a word,
Because,
When the heart of a poet gets too hot, that she can't stay,
She goes out to find a shoulder to lean on, but when she doesn't find one,
She let's the tears flow out drawing patterns on paper that only she can comprehend,
She knows how to conceal the spears that clutch in her soul,
And only those who read between her lines get to spot the pepper in the plate.