Does everything come from trauma?

I was once a poet, a rhyme master for sure,

There were so many ways, that my poetry did explore,

But I stopped rhyming, and took a break,

But all I heard was rhymes when I was awake.

Let me explain my poetry to you,

This was something I always knew,

I thought it developed as I grew,

But it was deeper, like something I already knew.

I like to think it came from a past life,

Like a wonderful woman, but maybe a bored house-wife,

I knew old English from an early age,

Like I was passing wisdom as a poetic sage.

It sounds bizarre, but even as words are lost,

I become a barb at little cost.

In my lowest of lows, I can rhyme for sure,

It screams; 'I will explain your feelings in the poetry you adore'.

When I was 10, there was a poem I wrote,

Even my school and neglectful mother would note,

It was the first time they saw something in me,

Maybe for profit, or as a weird philosophy.

How can someone so young write like that?

Writing such wisdom, like it's a fact,

I didn't know this then, no one said,

But it filled in the blanks they pondered in bed.

My words hit them deep, all the feelings they ignored,

As I wrote down my feelings, and the world I explored.

It was full of them, and all their daily crap,

So it's no surprise, that they did overlap.

A child exploring topics, beyond their age,

Exploring things, beyond their range.

But in the sorrow, and toxic world,

The words gave meaning, and the child felt filled.

I was like an old age muse, brought back to this land,

With words and wisdom older than sand.

I never really cared what they thought,

Because the rhyme showed me something that couldn't be taught.

They saw it as a gift and an amazing skill,

Something learned from the feelings they would spill,

I learned their toxic ways, and put in into rhyme,

So no wonder it was relatable to those who committed the crime.