 | This is my confession.
The truth, is for you to decide.
The confessions of a would be poet.
Who’s ability has died.
What began as an outlet for anger.
At a world, I thought was wrong.
A simple way to raise my spirits.
A way to make me strong.
When the darkness finally left me.
And hope began to shine.
I believed that I had something.
I could say, was truly mine.
I thought I had a talent.
A gift, if you will.
Like medicine, for all to read.
But in truth, a sugar pill.
My words are only words.
On thoughts, and how I feel.
There is no special talent.
My words, can not heal.
Now my words too, have left me.
All my thoughts, have turned to dust.
Like Dorothy’s hero, The Tin Woodsman.
My poets heart, has begun to rust.
I don’t think I had a real talent.
I just put rhyme to words.
Some were fair, some funny.
But real talent, was never heard.
So this is my confession.
The truth, is for you to decide.
Is this the confession, of a no talent poet?
Who’s ability has died?
I wish you all my best.
And may life, treat you well.
May happiness always be with you.
And I wish you all.
Farewell… |  |
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