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