19/12/2025
I’ve been thinking about where this started, mostly because I keep pretending I don’t know. It’s easier to act like the poems arrived fully formed than to remember how many of them were written in the dark just to get through the night.
My first poems weren’t meant to be read. They weren’t clever or polished or especially good. They existed because there was a page, a pen, and too much silence to sit with comfortably.
I didn’t know anything about craft back then. I didn’t know what slant rhyme was or why certain lines refused to behave. I only knew my hand could keep moving even when everything else felt stuck, and that felt like enough.
What stands out now is how physical it all was. Cramped fingers. Ink stains. Red slashes through words that didn’t make it. Stopping not because I’d said enough, but because the page decided for me.
We like our origin stories tidy. We want them to sparkle or resolve or make sense in hindsight. Most of the time, they’re just repetitive and necessary and a little unfinished. This was that.
I don’t feel especially inspired right now, which is probably why this piece matters. It’s a reminder that the work didn’t come from confidence or clarity, but from showing up anyway and letting the habit do its job.
If this resonates, read it slowly. And if you’re someone who keeps stopping only when the page runs out, you’re not alone.
