I creep around, spying other’s glory
through shrouds of envy and spite.
I stress, I spew belligerent bile,
I despoil what feels my birthright.
If you only knew what your heart could spill.
If you only could allow
those creative gales to transform your gall
into work that makes you feel proud.
That gale just feels like a deadly whip
that will beat my words to a pulp,
reducing me to a limping pace
while the rest of the world can gallop.
Gallop implies a race to somewhere
while your journey is yours alone.
Pick supreme, your heart’s main theme,
and you’ll romp to the place called home.
A poem for Day 14 of NaPoWriMo 2015: A dialogue