Expression

I call it my craft,

Yet there are those-

Better at it than me,

Doing it for free,

Creating poetry,

Full of rhythm,

Vivid in imagery,

Describing the human heart,

And all its miseries,

In a poetic capacity,

Beyond my capability,

I used to console myself,

Saying I can hone it,

That I am not bad,

Just different,

That unlike them,

I am committed,

To this path,

Of creating art,

Using it to fuel my dreams,

And create something,

That will help someone,

Hold onto it,

For another day,

Simple words,

Blank ink on white paper lay,

Yet at the break of day,

My dreams are useless,

My courage faithless,

My heart tries to hold on,

It’s not the last straw,

Not for this camel,

It’s just the inability to let go,

Of a dream world,

Where creation was free,

Or at least used to fuel,

The cure to a greater human misery,

To provide medicine,

To the poor and the needy.

Perhaps a lot rode on,

On my dreams,

That ignored my inability,

Of being able to create poetry.

Yet I keep at it,

Because somewhere deep within,

I know that my hopes aren’t meant to go unfulfilled,

I have poetry in me,

It maybe different,

But some people love it,

And there’s no expiry date on learning.