The pen in my hands, the thoughts in my head
Where there exist a different light
Different days and different nights
There's never a moment lost in my mind
The thought of writing of any kind
Pretending as hard as i could
That someday I know i should
Would come again facing an essay
Where my mind shall once again say
That dear owner of this head
Release me back alive out of the dead
So someday you would realize
That Francis will summarize
Every word and every sentence
Out of all life's essence
You were born a poet and will live so
Writing as always part of the show
Poems that none may discover
But soon will uncover
Back into writing you come
The pen, the paper, the poem, here they come
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