I am not inherently anything,
but born as a blank canvas
on which my life’s choices
have been splashed.
I am the writer of the words,
that I reflectively speak,
of the artist of my inborn paths.
My feet leaving prints of life
wherever I’ve stepped,
my words staining the ears,
of many hearts of mediocrity
or all too similar to those of shame.
But still life owns the power
Of my good morning smile
to all those lone wanderers
who would come after me.