You know, we're not that different, you and I...
We've got things in common, you and I,
and this could be you up here,my
*** in the seat and you tellin' me why
the world's so messed up with words so sly...

I'm proud to say I'm a poet.
That makes me a wordsmith.

My weapon is words which I create
in the fire of my heart,
temper in my mind,
and forge in my mouth.
The air hits my lungs with crushing force
from the weight of my intentions.
The pressure hammers my tongue to action,
like sword to anvil,
showering hot sparks into the crowd.

And in this battle, I pray not to defeat you,
but grip you, trip you, flip you, and steal you
away from your world, your hate, your depression,
and overcome you!

See, all that baggage is kindling that lights very easily,
so if just one spark ignites in you
the spark of creation flowing through us,
just waiting to be tapped, or ends your solitude
by lighting a fire in your heart bright enough to reveal to yourself
that you are not alone,
but rather surrounded by others just as lonely as you? I mean,
******.

I hope I succeeded, and was not defeated,
but more and more wordsmiths are out there; they're needed!

Even now they hide among you,
and need to be weeded out of the crowd.
Brothers and Sisters.

This is not a poem.  This is a call to arms.

When you hear it, answer.
Don't just be all you can be,
say all that you can say,
and be a Poet's version of "Army Strong"
and join the few, the proud, the wordsmiths.

We are the thoughtmakers.
We are the thoughtshakers.

My word is my sword, which will cut through this silence
until not one doubt lingers...
When I'm through, I snap your minds,
not your fingers.