I have no camera
to capture a moment worth memory.
I do not fathom notes of symphonies,
nor can I serenade you with songs unsung.
I have no spices for a delicate meal
or recipes to make food dance on your tongue.
I possess no fabric for fashions to come,
and I am not chiseled in style of Grecian gods
in order to show another’s cloth.
I offer neither paint to spread on any canvas
nor pastels for paper’s surface.
I cannot act as a different person,
Or write you a play that may induce ovation.
I have no story in my head,
waiting to be ink on a page
or scenes in a movie.
I only have my ill-favored voice to be heard
And these words to be read.