I’m a writer,
and a poet.
Words,
The paint.
Rhythm,
My strokes.
And for my palette
As I string, each syllable, each decided ring,
I hear the rustle of words breathe through my mind, 
and pick the ones I so align,
And in that synchronisation with a sweep -
I take ideas and make them real,
As real as
Paper, pencil
Black on white
Graphite scratching
on parchment on and on
Form
To meaning
Meaning to form

That is my song