I wish I could stop
But the Angel refuses the stop
My pen, a humble tool, my words a gentle stream,
I write of social ills, a poet's waking dream.
To mend the fractured hearts, to heal the wounded soul,
To paint a better world, to make the broken whole.
But twisted minds perceive, where innocence resides,
And seek to use my verses, to stir up troubled tides.
They turn my words to weapons, my poems to a fight,
And blame the messenger, obscuring truth's pure light.
Know this, dear troubled souls, who seek to cause me harm,
My voice is but a vessel, an Angel's gentle charm.
The words that flow through me, are not of my own birth,
But whispers of an Angel, sent to this weary earth.
I am but the conduit, a pen in hands divine,
Through me, the angel sings, a message so benign.
I aim for no discord, I spread no seeds of hate,
But seek to mend the fabric, before it seals its fate.
So judge not by the words, but by the heart's intent,
For poetry's pure purpose, is to heal what's deeply rent.
I mean no harm, dear reader, I plead before you now,
Let understanding guide you, let peace forever bow.
©Nov. 2024
Emmanuel K. Doga
[Prof. DEK]
