My Poem

This poem pulled itself out of me, powerfully. I wrote this on Sunday, May 26, 2019. I’d had a very vivid dream that night and woke up with a sense of urgency to write it all down. The weekend affords me much time to muse. No meetings to go to, just me and my thoughts in the early morning hours.

My power comes from some well of stories and history about me,

My evolution until now and my predictions of tomorrow.

My power is non-categorical.

It’s not a talent, it’s who I am.

It’s unique, a combination of things;

A wink, a quirky gesture, a look, a style, a combination of raw feelings, a disposition, a curiosity, a kindness, a poem.

Had I known that my power was me, a beautiful poem about the good, the bad, the defiant, the valiant, the passion, the words were my very own poem, written everyday and treasured in every way, a story captivating, exhilarating.

Had I known this is my poem, my powerful poem, I would have studied it, appreciated it as the work of art that it is.

It’s not some magazine look, some superficial, universal look, pleasing to the eye, internationally recognized.

It’s the getting to know me kind, to see the inner strength, the not so obvious beauty that takes time to read and understand, one so lovely when you’ve read the story, you’ve understood the hurdles and triumphs and your heart soars with possibilities and hope, with happiness and sorrows.

This poem is my power, the words, their meaning, their life that is mine comes from within to be shared and written.

Had I known as a child that this poem was my power, not my talent, I could have spent my nights admiring the words, the stories and the hope. I would know I have risen, I am rising, I will fall and I will get back up, over and over and that is glorious, beautiful, more beautiful than talent or beauty itself.

I would walk like a beautifully written poem, my poem and seize it, own it, love it, love me.

Write your poem little one, begin at once. Share it and be proud of it.

It’s your story and it’s still being written, its ink is still wet, the verses are unfolding, this, your powerful poem.

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