My brother can draw,
Infact he’s aiming to grow,
From people to crows,
All that he has drawn.
He likes his pencil.
He’s in love with lines that makes his stencils,
Dots he joins to birth a picture,
With one pencil he brings out divergent shades.
He’s so keen with his art,
Though he’s only sixteen,
He knows it’s talent,
And a journey that has start,
To the greatness that is to come.
He wants me to have talent too,
But I’ve told him I was a poet,
He’s worried I wasted mine,
And that somehow I have lost the point,
A purpose lost of becoming a mine,
That the world harvest from.
Dialogues in mine mind,
Bubbling like boiling porridge,
I’ve denied the world a chance,
To sip from my pot of knowledge,
I’ve been selfish for a while,
But this guy;
He has spoken to my bones,
His sentiment aroused my spirit,
No longer will I sleep on this,
Treasure that God bestowed on me.
© Sherry 2017