I started writing at thirteen,
lyrics for a song I hacked out
on the old organ we had at home.
Melody first, a little loop
of sound full blown into a
song, my first attempt.
Looking at the words
scratched onto a page
of spiral notebook paper
tattered and lined
random thoughts
of a future love long gone.
It had form and meter,
it had rhyme, my reason,
a poem of sorts on my page.
A poem never to see
the light of day for years,
dead ended in a rusted file cabinet,
along with every other lame attempt
of poem and prose that
had me believing I had talent.
Maybe talent, but nary a whiff
of confidence to show the
work that was even at this early
date, very personal, a glimpse
of my inner self, the now me
in miniature, immature,
but with a dream.
To see my words light up
the pages of this book of life.
The flesh was willing,
but the spirit was weak,
my ambition was a wishful thought.
I wanted to write in the worst way,
and that was what I did,
in the worst way.
As the years passed,
I still tried to convince myself
that I was a writer, a poet
a composer, an untapped
resource in a disconnected
reality, a dreamer
working for his hearts desire.
Hard work, hard words
mired in the muse of my mind.
But determined to live
according to the dictates
of my nightly mystic visions.
I dusted off my file cabinet,
shooing the dusty webs from the
hidden treasures long buried.
I sent my words into the world
unsure of their worth,
afraid of their power.
Given to the eyes of
others of a write minded bent,
sharing similar uncertainties
of their own. They labeled me,
tattooed me with an identity.
They called me poet.
The name I wanted;
the name they offered.
Nothing is impossible.
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