In a desk a bit tight,With bright white walls, Years ago when life was simpler and I was still cute,A mind full of wonder in a room full of knowledge,A preacher with a book of poetry instead of the Bible,Out comes the words, so sacred to me now, of Robert Frost,I'm enthralled by their beauty,By their absolute glory,Inspired I use my own chewed pencil as a paint brush,My words are the colors,The structure is the frame,I write to let those words out of my mind,To make my vision a reality for someone else,And even to travel from those white walls to another world,I write to write; because I can't draw or paint,But that's okay- I'm better with words anyway.