When did you know you were a poet?
I knew I was a poet when the only thing that made my trauma, depression, and anxiety lighter was emptying some of that load onto paper and feeling GOOD about being in sync with the rhythm of how my pain flowed.
I knew I was a poet when I became a magician but instead of a magic wand, I had a magic pen. How magical it is to take some of the saddest stories and turn them into the fairy tales you cling to in hopes of a happy ending. My blues became the tempo to which I tapped my feet while I sat in deep thought about how my next song would sound.
I knew I was a poet when the whistle of the wind made the hair on my arms stand in ovation for more.
I knew I was a poet when the stars in the night sky volunteered to be my unwavering audience–twinkles as finger snaps at every line that resonated with their true selves.
I knew I was a poet when I was nothing else, and all I had to hold on to were my words.
This was inspired by a post, posted on the @poetpossibilities Instagram account. Looking at that question made many emotions come to surface. You start to think about the first poem you ever wrote and where it is now. I am glad I came across that post today as it reminded me of why I love to write and why I’ll always love to write.
Be sure to leave a comment of when you knew you were a poet. I’d love to read all your answers.