by Evan Horetsky and Karen Carolina

They say I have a way with words, just at the wrong time,
If they want a little ditty, I give them a long rhyme.

If they asked for a song, I would have only a chant,
My melody is missing when I say that I can't.

The goal rocks with the road block I set before myself,
The soul locked up in an old cracked cup, sat up high on the shelf.

Collecting dust, beginning to rust when hidden in my mind,
But if I think I desire a drink, it may be easy to find.

Like a fine wine, I get older and the feeling grows,
But is it my time yet to really create what I know?

What is what I know if I don't write it down,
What I know I will discover, when written, it is found.