I Don’t Appreciate Like I Thought

Lately mountains have loomed on my back,

I carved the ridges myself

There’s envy in my tone when I speak of respect

My notebook’s filled with Picasso’s,

Perhaps they’ll see it when I’m gone

Maybe I made my Mona Lisa,

Maybe I’ve never made a stroke

What difference does it make,

In my thoughts versus a page,

If I speak in brail,

And they’re fingertips are scraped

My pen is for my will

Everything I’ve ever known,

Every person I’ve become,

Still begging to be loved

I know mortality is not the worst of fates,

I’ve seen monuments built for legends,

And legacies beneath unmarked graves