Start of a Story



When poetry found me,

I was just in the seventh grade,

My teacher droaned on,

About different formats,

And styles,

And then free verse found me.


I grabbed a pen,

Snatched a notebook,

And wrote until my fingers cramped.

I wrote about love,

And death,

And humans mourning,

Begging for their loved ones,

To return to them.


Poetry to me,

Is a way to vent,

To tell the world,

About my broken mind.


Writing fixes me,

Picks up the pieces,

One step closer,

To a somwhat,

Stable mind.

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