Thank the Painter

Nothing I have is mine. Nothing I am is even me. It was given by chance, maybe something divine. Even others influence my poetry. Just because I can’t pinpoint exact That to which I’m attached Or it’s origins for me Doesn’t mean someone else didn’t have a hand in my story. Life is a tapestry, everything just paint I owe a lot to the woman who saved me, that motherly saint. Everything I would say that I’ve built Would be nothing if she didn’t clear out the silt. She taught me how to follow the thread To find why there was so much anger in my head. She showed me how to not give control to emotion Because it tends to be a violent ocean. She taught me to slow down, to breathe And it helps when clear choices I need. I know clearly that nothing I have is mine, That I am a product of those who were there for me. And I thank chance or whatever divine That gave me a second hope to live, to be.