THE COMPULSIVE POET.
 
 

Am I blessed with a gift,

Or bound by a curse,

Which turns my every thought to verse.

Fading memories become defined,

As verbal pictures in my mind.

Unpleasant thoughts,

Once cause for tears,

Have mellowed with receding years.

Once framed in words, held in my store,

Treasured with a thousand more.

Tone deaf, and devoid of graphic skill,

I've a void that only words can fill.

I hope some day, someone will say,

My words have brightened up their day.

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