Early beginnings are an oxymoron

My first start, with the art of poetry,

was the furthest thing from stark, a small weakling,

never inspired, always the same

although i desired, to be a big name,

from the depths i would rise, and overcome,

the shadow of those on high, of those with loud hums,

the musical drive, to the rhythmic nature,

that was the first, of the adventure. 

We got together, after the age thirteen,

when i first realized, my plate was clean. 

No scraps of art, of history.

Not even smart; a mystery.

I had about me, a blank canvas,

at first i hated, but now a fondness,

for which i could learn, upon anything,

everyone and in between

the classes i spent my days of harrow,

finding out what i'd do tomorrow,

it made no difference, all to me,

so long as i had, a bit of poetry

This poem is about: 
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 


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