It isn’t a masterpiece
Though, at times,
It can move even Shakespeare,
This written language of ours.
The art of the mind,
Is much sharper a blade
Than that of the tongue.
I find myself a poet,
With numerous stories and woes
To expatiate upon.
Through script I am a visionary,
Whilst in sound, I am but a dreamer
Anticipating the right moment to speak.
We are all great writers
It’s simply just not common knowledge.
Being both writer and poet I have reached
A great epiphany:
That everyone is different,
Though appearing in the same.
Cliché, is it not?
But all the more true,
Reading what is written by the people,
The children, on this Earth.
Everyone is special
They have their own eyes
That see a many different things.
You could watch the same thing for
A hundred years
And not see the same things as another
Who has been watching the same thing
For a few short seconds.
And that- that is the beauty of writing.
To be able to express and convey
What is seen with your eyes,
Eyes that nobody will ever have.
Your eyes, your unique eyes,
Are the gateways to beautiful things.
And as for my own,
My hand moves accordingly,
Weaving my thoughts and sights into
Works of the mind I’ve come to know as