The words weigh heavy on my chest.
I am told I deserve only the best.
Now really how can that somehow be?
All I am is me, that is all I can be.
Does this "I deserve the best" mean,
peaceful restful nights like in a dream?
I see nothing special in me. A shame?
My gift is special, poetry is it's name.
Many poets have been there before me!
Why should this gift make one adore me?
My thoughts are expressed in my own way.
Other people seem to know what to say.
I say what I feel and cause others to see.
How I am inside, the dark warmth of just me.
The light cool breeze I easily portray,
in a simple little verse , a poem I say.
The gift is special, yes it is, and not I.
I am just the person with the gifted eye.
Seeing words come together in a sweet rose
emotions related in rhymes and in prose.
Looking at it from my side of this,
Emotions and feelings a like a kiss.
They are all a part of us to share.
Share with all of you, all who care.
I went from a child to a man, so wild.
I have refound this gift, again the child.
Was told poetry was silly childish young.
Looking back at it those words had stung.
Now I feel so much the better as I am now.
Now a man with a child outside an somehow,
yes, I can be silly and childish feeling.
I truly find this to be so appealing.
M.W. Dimond 9-7-99 copyright
