I’m not a poem but a writer

drafter, master of my fate

And the skill to etch my word

is not acquired, but innate

I’ve sung the hum of other people

both the good ones and the bad

but the chords within my soul

were ones the others never had

I wish to find my own tonality

my timbre and my beat,

master all that I’ve been given

from my soul down to my feet;

for within me is a power

universal, yet unique

the ability to write

and the ability to speak

the possibility of song and art

and goodness so sublime

knowledge of the peak,

a spark that glistens of divine