Is poetry found in our blood
or squeezed out in sweat and tears?
Is it a talent that only the fortunate
get? Or liberation of our fears?
Can one hone it with practice,
Or give up now and change gears?
Then, is poetry for the anxious
perfectionist that nitpicks through the tears?
Maybe it's for the one,
Who is curious, observes and leers?
If it were just talent, then I'd be overlooked
And if it was sheer hard work, I'd lax my jeers
Because I lack the patience.
For me, the Spirit of creativity shoots out words like spears.
