To each of us is given a treasure
A talent, a gift, for good or for ill.
Yet squandered, it festers, rotting, impure;
Waste, unless given of loving free will.
It's tempting to hide it; easier, sure.
There are those who'd exploit it, mock it, and laugh
But fearful withdrawal is never the cure.
And those who would scorn it don't matter by half.
So try everything! Paint, write, dance, sing songs.
The world waits for you, a gleaming blank slate
The more that you try, your language belongs,
That secret soul language only we can create.
So on to the clumsiness, embrace defeat
For in that strange newness is your true heartbeat.