[I didn't know what to call this type of poem, since it's something between iambic tetrameter and iambic trimeter, but who cares. February 23, 2021]
Talented
I know how talented I am:
they tell me every day,
except I sometimes wonder if
it's just the words they say.
My hands can dance, creating art
in pencil on the page,
until the pen slips from my hand
and I'm trapped in a cage.
My fingers fly across the strings
and sashay into space,
until the bow begins to shake
and I can't find my place.
My mind can sing, can weave with words
and breathe life into ink,
until the flow of wit runs dry
and I can't even think.
I know how talented I am;
I try to stand up tall,
except I sometimes wonder if
I'm any good at all.