Years ago, you had looked up to see if anyone loved what you wrote.
You tried to look in their eyes to see
If they understood your scribbles.

Your childhood hand wrote in dyslexia,
waving your pen with much fun as daddy’s shaving foam,
But now its purposefully writing its thoughts backwards.


Those four letter words you saw on paper,
The first time, had taught you to
Be KIND, show LOVE and have HOPE.

Before you can write now,
You stare at green leaves because
They are supposed to leave you with a muse.


You try not to tell yourself,
You will write tomorrow,
when the emotion is fully formed.

Thinking hard makes you look through people,

As you drive by with your pen between your teeth,
And with a notepad standing by.


When you reread her poetry,
Mary Oliver will ask you again,
“Tell me what you plan to do with this one wild and precious life?”

So you must sit up straight and wring your hands for anything,
Surely darkness must be a gift too,
Silence more violent than volume.


In the name of poetry,
You begin with no punctuation and sham gravitas,
Like the still pond belying an animal kingdom inside.

Finally, when they come pouring, you feel desolate;
Words can’t express how you feel,
But you drag them with you to the finish line.


Don’t let others judge before they actually do.
This poem is only for other poets anyway,
Who want to write better than you.

Be bold,
Let this story be told,
Tomorrow it might outlive you.

Riding high on dopamine,
This poor generation is yet to peel away from the phone,
But you’ve put your pen to paper and already have a poem.


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