I took to the page as birds take to the sky.
At the tender age of six, my head was full of life,
And my hands held a million hidden stories.
I would not have known, had I not become a thief.
In the first grade, I snatched paper under my teacher’s nose.
I introduced it to my pencil and they became fast friends,
Guided by that frantic, yet focused child’s mind.
My only goal was to write and write and write,
And the use of both sides didn’t stop me.
My life of petty crime soon ended
When my mom produced a notebook.
She said it was all mine to write in,
And I haven’t looked back since.
Hundreds of pens must have sacrificed their ink
So that my ideas could see the sun.
Everything I thought and dreamed
Filled notebooks cover to cover.
Though my pens and pencils were talkative,
My mouth was staying closed.
I began to feel I was a square peg
That couldn’t fit in with others,
No matter how much I forced it.
I seemed to be trapped by a steel bubble,
And it was too thick to scratch up.
I would not have escaped, had I not become a poet.
In junior year of high school,
Slam poetry launched itself at my bubble
And blew it wide open.
My mouth regained its voice,
My hands found a new strength.
Before, I would not have dreamed
Of baring my soul to strangers,
But now I feel I was born for it.
I have always spoken better
When my words are on paper.
Speaking out loud is always
Fraught with danger.
I trip, I stumble, I fall,
I offend by accident.
The path from mind to mouth
Is rarely a smooth one.
But I never needed a map
To navigate from head to hand.
On the page I say what I mean,
I say what I keep inside.
The words that fall flat
When they tumble from my mouth
Ascend to higher places on paper.
I can unlock my own secrets
And describe what can’t be described.
Poetry is a friend and a savior,
A confidante and a haven.
It doesn’t judge or scoff,
Or turn its back on you
When you confess to it.
You've got to hold on tight
To what makes you feel free.