I wanted to write my own thing,
A thing from my own thought.
I wanted to make something I had wrought.
I wanted to but all for naught.
I wanted to wear my own bling,
A shiny bauble made
From this and that of highest grade,
Things no one else has ever said.
But it was all for naught, I thought.
But not for want of effort made,
Oh no: For I had been well taught,
And work itself can make the grade,
An uphill battle albeit be,
Time only will tell true, you see,
If this or that remains a thing
Continuing to show its bling.
I Dwell In Possibility 