the compulsion

You may bombard
me with words, still
I will write my verse.

Saplings will surface
from the frame of
the butchered earth.

Trees will throw up
fruits and flowers,
no matter what.

Good or bad,
wrong or right,
I cannot not write,
the chef-d’oeuvre is still
waiting inside,

destined, or condemned,
accursed or
blessed, guess I have
no clue,
thoughts will sprout
through the humblest
of words,
false or true.