The brush is my hand, the bristles my fingers
This mind often bent, in space deep it lingers
So sit down I do to type what imprisons
These thoughts that are birthed, by me I envision
In heart they are kept, in soul they are nourished
Words some coming easy, some hard fail to flourish
Short stories written with simplistic rhyme
Some snapshots of life, I've taken through time
Love poems I've written and some christan too
Falling short of God's grace who still sees me through
I write like an artist who paints what inspires
The colors they breathe, their hearts deep desires
My work may not sell or appeal to some others
Who write more poetic, for some who will smother
With critique very pompous, callous, unforgiving
These portraits I paint, of life some are living
