In the middle of the night

On the lapel of my shirt

In the crevice of my arm

In the illumination of street lamps

In my old and beat up journal

That I cherish like my life

Written quickly in the darkened ink of mascara

Rushing to put down words

That frequently toss and turn in my mind

In the train as I feel the vibrations of its movement

And the rush of its wind

Written discreetly in a napkin

In the sloppy wax of crayons

Will I ever be a writer

Published in the magazines

Signing books

And greeting fans

Become eternal in a textbook

When my generation’s dead and gone

I just want to make a difference

Not just sloppy beat up notebooks

In sloppy illegible scripts

Crowded by silly little doodles

Just to wile away the time

I want to be a Maya Angelou

Or a Edgar Allan Poe

Sew my words and reap it’s fruits

In the hearts and minds of others