Instead of sweating blood I’m bleeding ink
In my dreams I’m writing my best book
I hope the still small voice speaks while I think
Why do spirits rise, why do they sink?
I wrote a poem but was it just a fluke?
Instead of losing blood I’m bleeding ink
Elijah hid and then his courage shrank
God was angry yet he was astute
We hear the still small voice,who says it’ counts?
Light come through a crack or through a chink
Whoever is inspired is rarely thanked
Whose voice was the little voice extinct?
Instead of blood my veins are filled with ink
We’re told that god is dead but he still speaks
I hear the still small voice and then I think
I write it down I want to be correct
I always treat my voice with great respect
Instead of using blood we write with ink
We recognise the voice it is distinct