I was born special, With a spark unbeknownst to most, I was born with the powers of expression, The ability to embody that which I hold highest, To immortalize it in the written word, To express the beauty that surrounds me, The encompassing force that keeps us from total degeneration, Alas why do I not live it, To dwell in the utopia I can conceive, To experience the gold of my craft, Find serenity, solace in my gift, Tell me how do I enjoy the fruits of my labor, When the only fruits I can see are the fruits of the damned, For so long as essence of creativity, Draws strength from the posthumous, As long as the artists palette Uses the colors of reality, Humanities most precious gift, Is a waning star, Trying fruitlessly to illuminate the cold space that surrounds it.
Reason for writing:
This poem reflects the pathos I feel in relation to hypocrisy, in specific people who dream of doing things that have been done, and not reaching outwards to do something new. It also justifies me not writing about anything not totally original
Birth sign: Virgo
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