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

Poetry.

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