After all the poetry is written
Where will I put these feelings?
The contents of my soul could spill out
In the ink of a thousand pens.
A million sheets of paper could not absorb it.
Where will I put it
After all the poetry is written,
When my hand grows weary
Yet my soul still threatens to explode?
I could cry until I have no more tears
Yet it would merely be spitting in the ocean
Compared with the fullness of my heart.
Could you possibly find room for it?
For my hand is beginning to ache
And my pen is running dry
And I am so very frightened
of what will become of me
After all the poetry is written.