i may not be able to hold a pencil,
shade on a paper and draw.
i may not be able to hold a brush,
mix colors and paint without flaw.
im just some random guy,
you meet at the corner of the street.
a little bushed and a little beat,
who walks looking at his feet.
i may not look good,
in fashion or in sense.
a homebody kind a guy,
who lets time fly by.
but im the kind of guy,
where a pencil can make words fly by.
simple words that you’d always hear,
becames music when im near.
i paint my world with the colors of the words,
letters arranged in rainbow cords.
without beauty or grace,
it just brings a smile to my face.
i don’t really care
what words you fare
your opinions are your own
to live and to share
but here i lay with a pen in hand,
where i scribble a map to form my land.
my mind be twisted and conflicted,
but does anybody know who i really am?
