It could be the truth but most likely I’m feeding a fairy tale,
Writing is an art and a passion delivering beauty to the blind in Braille,
Poetry or prose, it all requires talent like painting a perfect picture of a lonely rose,
In-depth with intricate detail or briefly cryptic if that's what you choose to disclose,
Preaching an anthem from a never before celebrated street intersection,
Words of wisdom being rapidly transferred and stream lined into street diction,
Expressing old feelings of tension and questioning the whereabouts of a lost pension,
Hitting every section with stead fast traction it's all coming out without hesitation,
Kickin' back in a freestyle speakeasy with the world's weight finally lifted,
Turning it over in my head like a sculpture I just crafted,
An aromatic piece that is gently scented, rotated and perfected,
It was there all along nested and pointed,
With abilities I rented I molded it into something fully constructed.