I know I have a gift, though at times I hate to admit.
For at times it seems a chain, this curse of mine, keeping this pen in my hand for now and all time.
To make me listen to the cruel mistress the muse, who fills my mind and soul with stories of another time, another age
It makes me rant rave, and yet still it remains not separate but the same that voice inside my head.
This gold gilded chain of a gift that makes my skills a singular thing.
I can write, I can make words dance across the page, yet I’ve no skill for other things, not a passion for aught else.
My mind burns for words to fill it, to make of myself more
To fill the page with ink until it runs along the floor and up along the walls.
To fill my soul with the words inside my soul, to see them and let them show, that is my gift, the curse I know.
So, I know that I seem skilled, I know that some say blessed, instead say cursed, for I had little choice in this.