all it took is writing one poem for me to fall in love with the craft...

My first stage, a wide-ruled page
sleeping soundly in the thread-binding
of a black composition notebook.
That first piece of looseleaf to-be didn’t mind
my gel pen’s roller-coaster loops of cursive
that could start fires only known to phoenixes.
It didn’t mind
when I scribbled out careless mistakes
with the fury of the Furies themselves,
but really, it was the Muses
whispering into my ear the whole time:
Keep writing, child, and don’t you ever stop.
Twenty-two years later,
and I’ve continued to heed Kalliope’s call.
My poems now slumber
in notebooks probably hundreds in number
and electronic archives
spanning from 2005 to 2025.
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