tick. tick. tick. Boom.

I was a poet and I knew it. I knew it back then even
when I did not put down my paper to pen.
And when I did, it would shake the dirt from my sins.
Shake the man in me. Who was growing to be.
One who was striving to find his dignity and integrity.

One who was looking at the world and wondering.
What he could do when he was nothing much more than a
child of the middle class with dreams of a world with no class.
No Ivy League pedigree to pull from you see.
Just an endless sea of dreams to dream before me.

Just a state college degree in painting was received.
And after, I was speechless as my words did not grow.
Did not flow. Where concepts were hard to show.
But there was romance to put the paint brush
to canvas to dance with this. To make a universe of sorts with
every mark made leading me towards unknown parts.
But was this an empty verse on this canvas before me?
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