Everything I am is still a mystery to me,

what the mind tries to understand my heart just disagrees.

The lines that leave a trail will forever be mine,

if I achieve or if I fail it’s permanent my sign.

Regardless of the world all of my devotion,

is for the words I engrave interpreting my emotions.

Insecure but sure I gave myself the name,

of the poet that to other writers will never be the same.

Different paths and roads are put across my sight,

why can’t people understand all I want to do is write.

It’s not a curse, it’s not a gift or something simply to kill time,

it’s in every cell, in every beat it’s my unique given design.

As the young being that I am applications to the future are given out,

what mother wants, what father thinks and what of me I doubt.

I can’t escape it’s in my blood and every fiber of my skin,

inside my eyes and in my hand everywhere that blood has been.

Today, I can say psychology is what I want to do,

tomorrow: paramedic but none of its true.

Deep in my heart and in my soul my true design displays,

what I will do incessantly for the remaining of my days.

Words written on a surface is what I feel I should live for,

my state of mind and creativity are things I can’t ignore.

Painters paint their talent and writers write them down,

architects design them while musicians play the sound.

‘What if it takes me nowhere?’ I’m imprisoned in that thought,

what if I’m not good enough for everything I fought.

At the end I cannot flee from printing my ideas in lines,

this is it what God made of me; to write is my, design.