I want to be a poet
I want to paint pictures in people minds
Use my fingers as paintbrushes
The palm of my hand my canvas
I want to be able to trace my words with utensils of artistry
Make tedious muddled letters become beautiful pieces that tumble off the tongue with ease and elegance
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I've always wanted to be a poet
Ever since I was younger I would create stories
Let me make a memory of when I was just a little girl toppling over piles of crispy brass leaves that daddy raked in piles
Dancing in the rain as it melted my insecurities away from my expanded existence
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My mother told me I would make a good poet
Look at my master piece mommy
I used to place words upon words telling you that I loved you as much as down comforter kittens or saying you reminded me of pollen covered petals that disembark on my rose flushed cheeks
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Look mommy I finally wrote you a poem
But you can't read it because I don't need to to hear the wrath of your rage
Terrifying roars flying out of your mouth as if I'm being being pushed off a rocky edge free falling from sandy ridges and broken dreams
Fretting that you'll take it the wrong way but sometimes the wrong way is the right way to make it your way.

But mommy I've decided I am a poet,
my fingers my paintbrush& palms are my canvas.