Who am I but a rhyme, unwritten,
a blacksmith of words,
pounding out each and every phrase
into an aesthetic form, unseen,
my labor of love, my everything,
seeking thoughts sublime
as I follow my pen into realms divine,
just to know I can.
And what joy exists,
within my very fingertips,
to exact my thoughts in such ways
that souls in pensive gaze take note,
and all I ever want is to speak,
to embellish life to reveal its divine perfection,
and yield to my human frailties,
just to know how much I need to learn.
Writers are innovators,
poets are artists, painting in hues unknown,
to uplift the sight and knowing
of every souls who owns a heart,
and that may connect with mine,
to truly know what beauty is,
and to open a mind to other kingdoms,
life in every form within time.
Words, hard fought,
that weighed so heavily,
that bent a back to almost breaking,
drew tears from sorrow in a flood
and taught a soul so completely,
that is what I choose to write,
to find a heart to hear my songs,
and to know we are not alone.
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