In 3rd grade I was given a pen and paper

told to fill it with something meaningful

something moving and life changing

as a youg child I could not think of such thing

Such a thing a poetry was another assignment

another pest in the education system

 

The concept was so abstract to me

What good will come out of writing down my feelings

Writing did not seem theraputic

neither did it relieve my boredom

I left the paper,

Blank.

 

In middle school, reading and analyzing poetry 

only proved to be a bore

Tapping my finger

to the ticks of the hands on the clock.

 

It took until the start of my 9th grade year

The glorious first year in high school

that I learned to appreciate poetry.

A friend had signed me up for a poetry jam

I denied all requests of my attendence

but with the bribe of ice cream

I went.

 

The media center at night

dim and mystical

with one spot light on a single black stool

housed spirtual words

words with more definitions than a dictionary could  hold.

I didn't recognize a single performer

that sat on the stool

but I knew of their story by the end of the night.

I felt a connection to it

slowly but surely.

 

 

Who knew that I'd be here today 

having performed poetry in that stool

finishing out my senior year at the insititute.