I don't have a degree,
No paper stamped with someone else’s approval.
I didn’t sit in those lecture halls,
Where words are dissected like specimens,
Laid bare on cold metal trays.

But I’ve got stories inside me,
Like wildfire, they burn.
Fingers itching to dance across the page,
To spill ink like blood,
Pouring out the parts of me
That only words can express.

They tell me,
“You’re not educated, not certified,
Who do you think you are?” ...