Finding My Voice

At the gathering of rhymers - where first I did recite

Were other poets more worthy-polished; oh, so erudite

Metaphorically in pinafore-pigtails; I rattled-shook with fright

Standing meekly solo at center stage - in blinding beacon’s light

That day I did unveil my soul; its nakedness to expose

For I was still a tender babe in art of verse and prose

Much like the turkey carved - for Holiday's buffet

Fat, skin, gristle gone – the superfluous cut away

Leaving only the meat of me hanging from the bone

As I poured out my essence there; so profoundly alone
Laid bare as I was – ever fearful of rejection

I expected no less than my merciless dissection

For a rhyming verse of faux face - I knew I had not shown

But truest reflection of inner heart; which was my very own

As years progress, as I mature - my poet’s voice grows strong

Still, some days my voice will squeak or l get the meter wrong

I boldly now do add my cry to the turbulent, cacophonous song

Of poets, writers, rhymers, dreamers – noisy, wondrous throng!