How? Well . . .

How can I write?
How can I write well,
when I have yet to live,
to break out of my shell?

How can I live?
How can I live well,
when I have yet to think,
to learn for myself?

How can I think?
How can I think well,
when I have yet to feel,
to let my heart swell?

How can I feel?
How can I feel well,
when I have yet to dream,
to discover new realms?

How can I dream?
How can I dream well,
when I have yet to write,
to pen out a tale?

The Lark Who Doesn’t Sing

There’s one little lark you never see,
He sits high up in the tree.
His body is scrunched against the trunk,
and in the shadows he tries to duck.

This tree is filled with many larks,
who sing from sun up ‘till it’s dark.
Always a new tune they have to hum,
while our lark hides feeling dumb.

Yet our lark contended seems,
in his world of wistful dreams.
Occasionally he does desire to sing.
His voice is inaudible in the perpetual ring.

Unnoticed he is more than happy to be
He can think, even when no one sees.
Sadly, some birds don’t know his ways.
They revel in the noise-filled haze.

“Sing!” say they to our lark accusatorily.
“You must express yourself orally,
we all sing quite loud, quite often
we sing even if we sound rotten.”

Our lark steps back, he is shy
with these demand he wants to cry.
Sing he cannot he has no refrain!
All songs have been sung again and again.

“I can’t” he mumbles nervously.
“I can’t do what you demand of me.”
“You must” they cry persistently
“You must sing with us in this tree.”

“The songs I’ll sing are old and worn.
They have all been sung before.
I want to sing a song that is new,
until then I cannot sing with you.”

In the tree our lark remains,
Waiting to sing a fresh refrain.