People around me have always been insanely talented, and I've always been insanely... not. Their voices carry notes, gracing the air as if their harmonies alone could erase the impurity that envelopes the world. I've long ago deemed my vocal chords broken... damaged... because for the life of me I can't seem to produce the art that they do so naturally with the air that escapes from their lungs translated into beauty through their lips and all I make from mine are words. Words that no one stays long enough to listen to. Dancers can move their bodies as if music dictates the way their muscles contract and grace seems to pour out from their pores, sweat that covers their skin like a blanket somehow quenches the thirst our world seems to always have and it is art. My body is too weak, too clumsy, too impure to do such things. My limbs hang loosely, hang tightly, my limbs don't know what they're doing. The only art my body knows is when my fingers meet a pen, and when that pen meets paper and it is art. Art that no one looks at long enough to appreciate. Art like my mind so distorted people can't call it abstract any longer. Art that is poetry. It is the only beautiful thing I can bring into this world, and even then its beauty is subjective. Its beauty is arguable. But let me tell you, one day their voices will be too frail, their bodies will be too weak to carry the burden of their hearts. Too weak to express the burning passion they hold deep inside. While my mind will never be too frail to dive into the deepest recesses of my soul. My fingers will never be too weak to hold a pen. My eyes may become too blurry to see the lines of a page but they will never be too blurry to miss the truth that our world presents to us. And I will never get tired of telling the truth that I know, the truth that I write. I will never be too old to be a poet. I will no longer be ashamed of the imperfect sounds that escape my lips. Words. I will never be too young, nor too old for words.
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