Monday, August 15, 2011

It's My Thing
Years ago,
I would enter a room
And a corner would
Beckon me.

Once situated,
I would put
Pen to paper,
Paper to pen
And let it flow.

And like a flood heavy
River, my thoughts,
My words would erupt
Onto the pages,
Leaving them soaked.

Soaked with ideas
And concepts
That had no rhyme
Nor reason in my head,
On my tongue,
But on paper,
They would make sense.

In time,
These words stretched
And pulled from the confines
Of verses and stanzas
And morphed into paragraphs
That told stories
That wanted to be known,
To be told,
To be heard,
To be read.

I’ve been doing this
For years, never claiming it
As my own,
As what I do,
As what I am,
But now I own it.

I own the right
To say that
I am a poet,
That I a writer,
It is what I do,
It’s my thing.

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