My pen caresses the paper to create images.
They’re poems, the images that I create.
It is May, but the words dance through the fall leaves.
You see, it’s Not always what you would assume.
Assumptions, they can never Be beautiful pictures.
These images can’t be called Great. They’re a journey.
I’ve learned a lot of amazing things, But I’m still scared.
There will always be the voice that says “I can’t”.
But that voice is invalid, it’s my job to Try.
Pushing the voices away, I am able to finish my image.
There are trees, rustled leaves. The things about nature I like the Best.