Gifts.

Writing, My anti-drug.
I’m only sure that it’s beyond me.
That the feelings conjured when a disservice is done.
Something I work on when the night falls.
And the need to speak light over dim situations feels more like an obligation then a gift.
But my affinity for poetry came naturally
As if I grew up hearing one phrase on repeat
Cut the chatter, speak the truth.

So, you’ll have to pardon my tongue for the rhythm in my speech
But it’s the same beat that dancers have swayed to
Artist paint to
And real drummers play to
To each his own
Mode of self expression
May it be whatever you make of it