It is not like I just remembered, though in a way I did,
some part of me wanted to be a poet when just a kid.
Like my artist, which got squashed while still in school,
I’ve waited until my current age to find I had the tools.
If I had been better, had better mentoring, who knows.
I think I had not lived enough to write poetry or prose.
Or, my best might have been shallow, yet quite clever.
Now I write what comes to mind, to be read or never.
I am sure that not everything I write or paint is a gem.
I am proud of some, yet no one will ever write a hymn.
I’m thankful for ability I have, yet I may sink in time,
neither my art nor writing known, though I rhyme.
I like to paint portraits, though of folks not well known.
I don’t always paint as others do, still I chew this bone.
If you would learn who I am or was, read a little more,
because writing is autobiographical; it’s from the core.
All paintings or other artworks are portraits of the self,
still life, landscape, Avant Garde, sold, or on the shelf.
Analog, digital, medium albeit message, cannot matter,
it’s who, where, when we are, sane or mad as a hatter.
I fear most never find the center; where we need to be.
But never stop looking, it is worth whatever hurt or fee.
If we’re true to ourselves, what we are driven to create,
there’s never a wrong time, neither too early nor late
Peace is Purpose, Nonviolence is Strength, Diversity is Unity, Empathy is Empowerment
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