Poetry In The Morning

I do a lot of writing. I know that's fairly obvious because you are currently reading my blog which I use to post some things I have written and have deemed acceptable for viewing. But it's true. I love to write.

I love the swirl and swing of words as they tangle with human emotions.

I don't know who said that, but it perfectly describes my feelings on the subject. Words have a graceful feel to them. Like a head of long and curly hair, they are a tangled, swinging mess of grown out hopes. (Side note: I would give anything for some nice curls.)

I filled one pretty little notebook with some poems my eighth grade year, and since then that notebook is nowhere to be found. I grieve a little for it- that was the year that I embraced my need to write, and some of what I wrote was good. The words came easier to me then. Freshman year I struggled with everything; even the simple act of putting pencil to paper was a battle.

This year is different. Poetry is becoming more than just a little nighttime free-writing deal. I am slamming. Well, I'm going to try it. A group of us at school have started meeting Monday and Thursday mornings to draft, prompt, perform, and discuss poetry that could be used for a citywide slam in April. We're coached by a cheery and lovely and oh-so-talented poet who is super excited about working with us and keeps bringing in more cheery and lovely and oh-so-talented poets. She's the best. I like her a lot.

These meetings color my entire day. Something about sharing my words with others and listening to theirs gets my adrenaline pumping, carrying me through to the final bell.

I'm going to a workshop on Saturday afternoon, and I might stop by open mic that night.

Poetry is magic and words are love.