My Chosen

What is it about this world that I so long to be in?
I only wish to bask in its open creativity,
Yet I must constrain myself to first learn,
Learn how to wield it like the fabled pen.
So why do I love it?
When I'm not the best of talent,
At time I'm average but unknowing
My memory is gone by the minuet,
And who the heck were my predecessors?
I can't name that term,
Though try as I might
Nor can I tell you out in the open, about
This wonderful world I am holding in my tips.

Sitting here though, in the dimming light,
With a thick piece of wood between my fingers,
Callousing my hands and hardening my skin,
Breaking forth from my blood...
This world is alive.
It is born and molded on whim and need.
It is more tangible than the skies,
More real than the crowds,
It is whatever I can do with it.