You call it a gift
A talent
Able to pour raw emotions
Perfectly into the lines
Of creased paper
Yet you might mot see it through my eyes
It's a curse
A wicked blessing
Fully visible to my eyes
Unable to go a day
Without putting pen to paper
Unable to stay focused in my classes
Always tempted to write
This addiction has became a full on obsession
Where is the gift in that
How is it a blessing in disguise
When everything revolves
Around one poem being born
Poetry is my god
My altar to repent
The only thing I can trust
This gift
Has became the one thing keeping me alive
So we'll just call it Poetry