In 3rd grade I was given a pen and paper
told to fill it with something meaningful
something moving and life changing
as a youg child I could not think of such thing
Such a thing a poetry was another assignment
another pest in the education system
The concept was so abstract to me
What good will come out of writing down my feelings
Writing did not seem theraputic
neither did it relieve my boredom
I left the paper,
In middle school, reading and analyzing poetry
only proved to be a bore
Tapping my finger
to the ticks of the hands on the clock.
It took until the start of my 9th grade year
The glorious first year in high school
that I learned to appreciate poetry.
A friend had signed me up for a poetry jam
I denied all requests of my attendence
but with the bribe of ice cream
The media center at night
dim and mystical
with one spot light on a single black stool
housed spirtual words
words with more definitions than a dictionary could hold.
I didn't recognize a single performer
that sat on the stool
but I knew of their story by the end of the night.
I felt a connection to it
slowly but surely.
Who knew that I'd be here today
having performed poetry in that stool
finishing out my senior year at the insititute.