I was given a gift; the gift of guilt.
To use freely and often.
I did. I do.
A member of the club that no one wants to join.

My gift is pretty
Dependent on words.
On thoughts.
On her, him, them.

On sticking plasters carefully stretched
Over still weeping wounds.
Quiet now.
Yet visibly hidden.

I want to write a poem
That will stand out from the crowd.
I don't much want to whisper
But to shout it rather loud.

And if somebody's passing
Well perhaps they'll give me praise.
Then I'll express with great finesse
"It's more than just a phase ...

You see, I'm rather clever
I've been told to have a go.
For it's been said, I have a voice
To, let my juices flow".

But sitting at this keyboard
It's harder than it seems.
I haven't got a gift at all
But merely have my dreams ...

As I sit here and try hard to write,
Something funny and poignant and bright.
It would seem to the masses,
That I need some more classes.
As my penmanship skills are a fright!