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I never thought I would write poetry.
Poetry was for others-those who carried verses in their pockets, who spoke in meter, who saw the world in metaphors before they saw it plain. I was not one of them. And yet, here I am.
Some thoughts resist the weight of explanation. They slip past reason, sidestep argument, and settle instead into rhythm, image, breath. Some truths are too sharp to hold as prose. Some questions ask only to be whispered.
So I write poems. Not because I planned to, but because some ideas refuse any other shape. I write them for myself first-because they ring true in my own bones, because they catch me off guard, because they linger.
If they linger with you, too, then we have found something worth keeping.
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