It was a push to the mind of a younger me.
The teachers ignited that spark
and it grew, vastly and abundantly,
pouring onto pages with pieces of myself.
They always told me I could go anywhere.
"Read!" They said. "The books will takes you places."
So I did.
And when I had traveled as far as I could,
I picked up my pen and moved forward.
Every word contained a lifetime of truths.
Every line brought new meaning to my existence.
I was alive.
And while the generation's trials lapped at my feet like waves
I fought back in metaphors.
Well, it worked. I traveled, and I lived, and I discovered.
Each letter reflected back a different piece of my multi-faceted self.
I once wrote that all writers are crazy.
I once wrote that our words never come when we need them most.
If anything, I need them now.
The days of working myself out on paper have watched me grow.
I am an independent young woman.
I am a writer, a poet, an artist of words.
A while back I thought poets must write because we're strange
Because we have too much time
Because we see things differently
Because we live in another world
But we aren't, and we don't.
We just recognize that the greatest parts of life
can be summed up quite beautifully,
and that the most beautiful parts can be best summed up
without a single word at all.
Yeah, the world quite a beautiful place.
And I am content
And it allows me to write, simply
because I feel.