And she jumped
She jumped out of her comfortable, plush launching pad
And she tried
She tried to set every fan to crosswind towards
And she hoped
She hoped that, when she jumped, her cape would carry her
And she fell
She fell onto the shagged carpet, on her hands and knees
And she did
She did all of this, yet she moved on to more fun
And she went
She went on to ride her bike, more confident in her peddling, than jumping
And she knew
She knew that the ground was much safer

A question? A response.
He leads her onto the floor.
A thought? A wonder.
"It's crazy how someone-i(m)p(e)rfect-could feel so perfect in this moment."
A move? A dance.
He sways her into his arms.
A desire? A plea.
"If only he realized-finally-
that I only wanted this moment."
A pause? An end.
She sighs...

A question? A response.
He lead her onto the floor.
An action? An excitement.
He didn't even know.
A move? A dance.
She wanted to be in his arms.
A smile? A plea.
She only wanted this.
A pause? An end.
Thank you...

A jack of all trades and a master of none.
What does this mean to you?
I have my hands in a thousand cookie jars when I should have my hand in one.

A jack of all trades and a master of none.
What does this mean for me?
I need to survive financially, yet I urge to have some fun.

A jack of all trades and a master of none.
What can I mean with my talent?
I don't know where I'll end up or how,
but out of all of the possibilities
for a future... I need...

I need to write.
I need to express my ideas in a way that make sense.

I need to write.
I need to dissolve my thoughts onto paper, no matter how intense.

I need to write.
I need to share the knowledge I've obtained and make an impression.

I need to write.
I don't know in what form I'll create this, but this is my intention.

What's a sentence?
A group of words and thought?
No, silly, it's not.

What's a novel?
A group of sentences and plot?
Not really, it's not.

Then what is this,
With books upon it's shelves?
That is the doorway to the lives of many who dream to no longer sit by themselves.

I See a picture,
Dear with color bright.
Its whimsical strokes,
A smooth, but lovely, Sight.

I Smell the paint,
A sense not faded yet.
Like prints left exposed,
With the trail's fine Scent.

But underestimated, the Tool,
And ability to express
The ideas my head
Conjures as a coordinated mess.

Yes, the paintbrush,
Much simpler than I,
Yet it works its hardest,
While I don't even try.