I'm locked in a room with a desk and a chair.
I want my stomach filled, but the cupboards are bare.
I'm sitting here with only one option:
To continue to write, during this lock in.

Is writing a talent?
I say to myself, as I look over my shoulder at the book on the shelf.
What about Melville, and Shakespeare, and Twain?
The all have much knowledge to send to my brain.

But people these days just don't understand
That we can do more than just sing and dance.
There are so many talents that slide under the rug.
"I wonder what mine is".
I say with a shrug.

But then I remember that I am equipped
With a whole set of skills that are right on my hip.
They rest as a tool belt, and as a reminder
That if I wanted to, I could go farther.