April is National Poetry Month, and I can’t be happier to admit that I know that. Four months ago I wouldn’t have known there was a National Poetry Month, let alone know WHEN it was.
It was my eighth birthday when I realized I loved writing. Someone, (sorry awesome family member who gave me this life changing gift but this was before I realized how important it was to document such things) gave me a tiny diary with a little lock. It was the invisible friend I always wanted. I wrote everything in my diaries (technically after age 10 I never owned “diaries” only “journals”).
I wrote short stories, poems, rants, fantasies, dreams, my darkest moments, my sexiest moments, my highest moments. That first diary started my obsession with words. I was always shy, being the true baby sister hiding behind my siblings and cousins. Only my journals kept my true personality- my true feelings – my true self.
When I started college writing became something else entirely. I decided to take this passion that felt more like my alter ego, and try to perfect it as the A personality that I am. I took several creative writing classes, but it was my poetry class that became my first memorable college experience. I was surrounded by peers who had such pride in their writing. They wrote as poets. I only wrote as a way to stay sane. I found my voice, my art, in that class. I made my first college friends, mostly pot heads who could recite Shakespeare and knew all the hottest spoken word poets of the time. They were obsessed with Def Poetry Jam and drunken writing games, and so was I.
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