My own language,
Few speak it,
Let alone understand it.
It’s foreign to many.
Yet I speak it fluently.
Emotions flowing through.
Sadness, anger, happiness,
Apprehension, and depression
Coursing through my veins.
To the tip of my fingers.
Thoughts racing in my mind,
Idea’s pouring out.
Passion radiating off the words.
The buzz I get from the conversations,
Is common amongst us.
Not many know how to comprehend,
The beauty of this language,
The pure beauty of the culture behind.
For thousands of years,
Few have made an impact.
The gods in our history,
Are not myths.
They are real.
They have taught us,
Things we need to survive.
For me it’s more than a few words.
It’s an escape,
A way out.
So I don’t have to face reality.
To speak my language all you need is pen & paper.
For I speak through poetry.
