My word birthed from an expresive seed,
later on I realized it was a poetic need.
Like my first nourishment from my mothers titty,
I had to learn how to survive in this poetic city.
It has always been a hassle,
almost everyday I've had to fight, struggle and wrestle.

I go outside at night to view the stars,
sometimes writing is like being on mars.
When writing we can't fumble the ball,
successfully pen or we'll surely fall.
I never wanted no parts of failing,
but it seems the devil is always trailing.

The more I resist his call,
the harder he tries to make me fall.
Now here I sit versing out another baby,
but I could care less if it's a maybe.
In the shadows of my brain,
I keep my light shinning to stay sane.
My poetic verse tramples through,
good or bad I never let it turn me blue.
 

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