I did not arrive here by accident,
not a casual tourist taking in sights,
in the long ago was a precedent
I digested in very small bites.
I didnít blow in on a sea mist
nor sprout from some magical seed.
Canít argue the fact that I exist
and yes I cry and I bleed.
My eyes may be clouded in mystery
and my smile just a little a-tilt.
I carry with me an afghan of history,
memories that refuse to wilt.
Words, the building blocks I use,
form and then fall on the page.
I crack dusty volumes to peruse
emotions electric and insight, tasty and sage.
I bow to my calling without prejudice,
it lightens the load in my pack.
I bless the day that I realized this
and never thought of looking back.
Fame and fortune are not within reach,
theyíre reserved for those wiser than I.
I live to share but not necessarily teach,
I donít hold my wisdom factor that high.
Should you stumble onto my concoctions
and you stop for a second and think,
if they reacquaint you with clarity and passions
how could one consider them a wasting of ink?
Itís another early morn, Iím up and creating,
lately sleep comes and goes as it is wont.
The twinkle in my eye has no plan of dissipating,
no matter the chosen style or the pitch and font.
I have the comfort of like minded friends
whoíve seen more than one sunrise over their pens.
The muse is an alarm, wake up, make amends,
break your story into pieces, for it never really ends.