What More

What more, but this ballpoint pen holds the truth
To all of my heart's anchored desires?
To what else am I slave enough to let loose,
Besides this ink, and thought's eternal fires?

Others find their pleasure in distant dreams
Where hope is fantasy and light is dark;
Where imagination has lost its gleam
And artists have no ambition; no heart.

Yet, my ship of thought is built of strong wood
And I am bold in the seas of this life,
So come lash yourself to the bow that withstood
The harshest roilings of the ocean's strife.

For, some tread water perpetually
But I refuse to be claimed by the sea.