Gather ye round, kids, would you like to know
About how I took up the art of writing poems?
Let me summarize my 18 years in all of their glory,
As you sit around the fire and I tell you my story.
In middle school, I thought poetry was, and I quote,
“Something mushy, gushy, and sappy that only emo kids wrote,”
A black-haired kid wearing chains and lip rings,
Cursing the world, using her tears for ink,
But I realized this was silly, this thought I later abjured,
As my lifelong love for music fueled my passion for verse.
I was a prodigy, I performed concerts as just a wee little babe,
I’d begin the show by pooping and barfing after I ate,
Followed by incessant screaming and booming temper tantrums,
An unappreciated symphony for my parents performed ad nauseam.
If we ever went out, those poor souls would pop in their mixtapes,
Whose music tastes were eccentric, a hodgepodge, a quirky array.
First, it was Marilyn Manson’s black-lipped harangue,
Then was George Michael’s sonnet, sweeter than meringue,
Next The Cure cooed about what love could have been,
And the Piano Man played and sang the song of the barroom scene.
Whether it was industrial, metal, new wave, or pop,
Those songs imprinted on my subconscious, the melodies stuck.
I picked up piano lessons in the 5th grade,
The guitar in 8th, the uke in 9th, I aspired to create
Lyrics of my own design, unique and cabalistic
Not quite those mainstream lyrics which are typically hedonistic,
But I always struggled with the puzzle of writing a good song,
Especially when everything went to pot when 10th grade came along.
I started having visit from a demon named Depression,
And he invited his impish friends, Perfection and Obsession.
They painted over my rose-colored lenses with a deep black tint,
And little did I know that these buggers were serial arsonists.
They lit a fire, burning down the trees of my imagination,
The rest were chopped down by means of deforestation.
I carried on with life mechanically, without much feeling,
And I could feel my brain melting, slowly unreeling,
I couldn’t express my feelings anymore by playing, drawing, writing,
I was too occupied protecting myself from these demons I was fighting.
A year later, I decided I had to go take care of this.
So after some serious pondering, I began seeing a therapist.
I poured my soul out to him, not sure what to expect,
He sat me down, gave me some tea, and judiciously said,
“Should you restore your brain’s forest and regrow that greenery,
You must pick up your pens, girl, and write yourself some lovely scenery.
It could be a song, or a poem, or anything at all,
Transform your demons’ bad juju into something wonderful.”
I always unconsciously had a knack for writing original rhymes,
So instead of pooh-poohing poetry, this latent talent I brought to life.
Words would roll from the brain, to the arm, and into the wrist
Which would scribble, scratch, and type quick words, just like this
Sometimes my rhymes would be powerful enough to make Manson recoil,
George Michael would probably scream like a wittle gyol,
Robert Smith would be in love on other days besides Friday
And Billy Joel would go back and sing about his glory days.
Now that I think about it, the more I wrote, the better I felt,
The forest grew back and flourished as well.
How ironic is it that I would mock poets for being “emo,”
When dabbling in creative writing had helped me so?
Even if my works were shoddy, messy, far from flawless,
What a big surprise, in writing “emo” poems, I found solace!
The moral, children, is when demons set fire to the forest in your mind,
To mollify the fire, pick up your pens and write.
Confidently you will be able to bid those demons begone,
And your post-fire forest will become a sparkling amazon.
But PG, what happened to the music and drawing, you may ask?
I got back to everything as I got my creativity back.
So there’s your story for the night, I hope you enjoyed it a lot,
But it’s late now; go to bed and have the sweetest thoughts.  
Goodnight.