The first time I ever picked up a pen and paper with poetic intentions was the begining of my lyric epiphany.
I was in fifth grade. I had just watched the Black Panther's movie. It was very moving.
So for my 5th grade DARE assignment I decided to rant about the White man, and how the honkys put Crack on the streets to kill my peoples. Blah Blah. I got in big trouble in the little Red Neck town of Pinellas Park, FL.
I would never have the urge to write again, untill my 10th grade English teacher, Mrs Edwards (No relation), gave us a writing assignment. She told us to write, write like the dickens about anything.
And the story continues....
Here I am.
But what exactly does writing accomplish for me?
What modes of sensation can I set free?
I write, I scribble, I dripple my emotions in ink.
Without a poetic release. Do they have a name for my condition?
I feel the sense of completion when my hand grips the pen.
After I have done the deed. I am back where I started, waiting for my next release.
Im a poet junkie.
I thrive on my next writing high. Each high needing be more stronger than the other and lasting shorter.
Whats the matter with me?
I am a poet junkie.
A hard stressful day, lets me get out my pen and shoot up my pad.
But for how long? How long till my next blaze?
How long will this poetic topic hold my gaze?
My eyes are glossy with the facts.
And my mind is woozy with abstract.
Mmm...do you hear that music?
Its the poetic mizer.
Hes calling me for my next hizer.
Click, Shoot Up, Release.
Without poetic peace....
In the end I guess I wasnt meant to have poetic peace. So Ill continue writing its the only thing I know how to do.