There is a race, a unique few
Cursed and fated to always see things differently, new
Most people can get away with just a glance
These minds see it, at creating art, a calling chance
Memories aren't just memories for these cursed few
Incidents are more than just passers by
Every change is recorded, every move kept in mind
Every word replayed, every truth, every lie
The colours surround, the images blinden
The sounds fill their ears, reach deep within
The Chosen few, these masters of words
Cannot see things as they are
Even if they wanted to
Their eyes look beyond the obvious
Wandering the unseen and far
Cursed is what I call them
Cursed to never be able to just watch.
A world of inspiration hits them wherever they go
And they crave it, long for it, thirst for it-
Inspiration, a poets scotch.
They have no say, when a muse walks their way
Obligated to sell their souls to the words.
Come words and rhymes and plenty a verse
How extraordinary this beautiful curse!
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