So very few people
Know how to convey
The making of this world,
While some of us at birth receive our tools
Of a marker, paintbrush, and a Pencil.
For years the maker and paintbrush illustrated
The patterns and textures of my life,
While the Pencil outlines its structures.
But when Act II of life unveiled itself
So did the abilities of the Pencil.
Before I knew it
The Pencil was going beyond
The outlined structure of my life,
But the emotions it birth
The solutions it ignored
Cruelty that its chained to
The hope that kept reappearing
And the Faith that never died.
The Pencil became more than a tool,
It made me more than an artist.
It gave me the title of poet,
For the things I could never illustrate
And the words that could never verbally escape.