So very few people

Know how to convey

The making of this world,

While some of us at birth receive our tools

Of a marker, paintbrush, and a Pencil.

 

For years the maker and paintbrush illustrated

The patterns and textures of my life,

While the Pencil outlines its structures.

 

But when Act II of life unveiled itself

So did the abilities of the Pencil.

 

Before I knew it

The Pencil was going beyond

The outlined structure of my life,

But the emotions it birth

The solutions it ignored

Cruelty that its chained to

The hope that kept reappearing

And the Faith that never died.

 

The Pencil became more than a tool,

It made me more than an artist.

 

It gave me the title of poet,

For the things I could never illustrate

And the words that could never verbally escape.