I spoke with painful memory that each word wasn’t clear to those around me.

Each time the words went to sound they danced upon the waves as noise.

I didn’t babble but inquired knowledge beyond my years.

The one true comfort was my ears caught on to patterns heard.

Always in my mind the floated about until I had to put pen to paper.

My hand gracefully moved guiding the link into words.

I didn’t babble but inquired knowledge beyond my years.

The one true comfort was my ears caught on patterns heard.

Constant companions learned to let my creative soul roam freely in the imagination of my mind.

Paper is never far nor is a writing instrument to conduct the mayhem flying about this head filled with riddles waiting to be unlock.

I didn’t babble but inquired knowledge beyond my years.

The one true comfort was my ears caught on pattern heard.

This how poems are birthed from my mind.

This is how I go about writing stories for others to enjoy.