Unique me

I grew up with ink stains on my palm,
It was my defect but a talent.
I was made an artist, I played with words,
The white sheet was my field
And the ball pen always kept rolling.

I was intoxicated with those whispers
Many never spoken but every one of it must be seen
Those yet to be heard would be read.
My life in lines, my fantasy, my world.
The only corner my soul could escape and be free

I was made with a golden voice
The songs from my hands can never be sang by serene

I am a tapper, a thinker, a writer.
Could I be anything less?

Soy Agaliao-Marav