Sitting in a library

Pulling books, one by one

Off the shelf,

Reading, reading

Shuffling forward,

Repeatedly, repeatedly


Nothing fits, 

Nothing clicks.

Brush my hand across a spine

Pull the book and look to see

Edgar Allen Poe's greatest poetry.


How I focused on that book

Reading, reading

Flipping pages

Hours on end

There was no end 

To my enjoyment.


'Each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor'

And there I shiver, struck by words

Held in place,



At first it was forced,

Teachers told me how to rhyme,

I thought rhyming was the key.

Years and years

And I grow up,

Learning what poetry truly is,

Now I am truly a poet.


Just like Poe I hold my pen,

Bearing my soul to paper

And letting words write themselves.


Now they come to me suddenly,

Whispering in my ear secretly,

Waking me from my dreams,

And pulling my hand hurriedly

Across blank pages,

Covering canvases in artwork

Weaved words becoming sustenance.


Poetry is living,

It makes me real.


I write and I feel real.

I write and I am real.

I write and I FEEL.

This poem is about: 


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