Ever since second grade,
my best friend has been a pen.
Maybe not a special writing utensil for most men,
to the written realm of poetry:
where words speak louder than actions,
where imaginations come to get practice,
where passion and decorum were born,
where similes and metaphors are at intellectual war,
and where I swore I would become,
So there I was a promising poet,
only at age eight,
facing the monsters in myself
as well as ones that wait.
Still afraid of following my father’s footsteps,
I slowly grow from my own experience.
Making the most of wrong decisions
because true power is shown through wisdom.
Ever since my first verse
I’ve learned to capture ideas with words,
turn thoughts to life one line at a time,
and redefine the world
just by using literature.
All I am, is me:
an open gallery,
framing verbal pictures
better than reality.
To balance peace and speak truth;
because poems sooth the soul
of both the living and the dead,
poems mediate the heart and the head,
poems communicate what is known, yet never said,
poems shaped this boy into a man,
but none of it could have been done,
without a pen.