All fingers move in one direction, the thumb goes against the grain,
Why should I write, what purpose served, many doubts lurk in my brain.
A moment strikes the emotional chords, becomes the opposable thumb,
I reach out to grasp, can’t help but pick, not writing seems so dumb.
The little finger in my mind, tells me I’m insignificant and small,
I’ve arrived, but am still an imposter, is the ring finger’s call.
The middle finger abruptly stands out, reminds how audience may react,
You may have to sell out, to succeed, is the index fingers pact.
My heart resists all doomsday talks, gives me a big thumbs up,
Each line I write, makes it crystal clear, that poetry is my cup.
The final form the poem takes, is a result of complex interplay,
Of raw emotions served with ice cold craft, a synergy as they say.
All beauty and art made possible, by the courage to non conform,
As my heart stands up to my brain, I can finally give my feelings a form.
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