A dark room, hushed and enraptured

By poetry.

Poetry, the life blood and first love of this City.

My City. My Home.

You are recording these words,

Spilling forth from the artists

That this City bore.

You are archiving these words

So that they may be saved

And heard again.

Long after their speakers are dead.

You are reverent,

Respectful of these poets,

And so am I.

I want to make rooms fall silent,

Enrapture people,

Make them feel something.

Make you proud.

That night, I fell in love with words.

I write,

And write,

And write.

Trying to make you proud,

Make you feel something.

But, I never show you.

Nothing is ready yet.

I am not good enough yet.

You die.

And now I write,

So I can feel something.

And, maybe somewhere,

You are proud.