My Poetry. I Love To write

My Poetry. I Love to Write

I still remember the first poem I ever wrote. I was ten, sitting at the window of our small apartment, watching the rain paint gray streaks across the glass. The city below was quiet, muffled by the drizzle. Something about that stillness tugged at a string inside me. I grabbed a notebook and scribbled down a few lines. They didn’t rhyme. The rhythm was awkward. But when I read them aloud, something in me stirred.

That was the beginning.

I didn’t know then what poetry would become to me. At the time, it felt like a game—a way to play with words, stretch them, twist them, see how they danced when I put them in new places. But slowly, writing became something deeper. It was no longer just a pastime. It was a part of me.

Poetry, for me, is both escape and expression. When life feels too loud or too fast, I turn to my pen. When joy bubbles up inside me or sadness sinks its claws into my heart, I write. Poetry is how I process the world. It’s how I understand others—and myself.

I write in the early mornings, when the house is still asleep, and the only sound is the ticking of the clock. I write in the crowded corners of coffee shops, surrounded by voices and clinking cups, lost in my own world of metaphors and verses. I write at school, in the margins of notebooks, sometimes mid-lecture when a line lands in my mind like a bird on a windowsill, begging to be noticed before it flies away.

My poems don’t always make sense. Not to others, at least. But that’s the beauty of it. Poetry doesn’t demand perfection. It welcomes imperfection. It allows for broken lines, for pauses, for spaces. It allows for me.

In seventh grade, I submitted a poem to the school magazine. It was called The Silence Between Us, and it spoke of friendship lost, of things left unsaid. When I saw it printed on the back page, surrounded by doodles and class news, I felt something shift. People read it. Some even told me they liked it. One classmate said it made her cry. That was when I realized—words have power. Even mine.

Since then, I’ve filled notebooks. Some are worn thin from overuse, their pages dog-eared and stained with ink. Others sit on shelves, neatly labeled by date or mood. I write about everything—about love and loss, about seasons and silence, about hope and heartbreak. I’ve written poems about my mother’s hands, about my father’s silence, about my dog chasing shadows in the yard. I’ve written about stars and subway trains, about old shoes and new beginnings.

Sometimes, I share my poems. I post a few online or read them aloud at local open mic nights. The first time I did that, my hands trembled so hard I almost dropped the paper. But when I looked up and saw people listening, really listening, I felt brave.

Most of the time, though, I write for myself.

There’s something sacred about putting feelings into words. It’s like translating the language of the soul. No matter what kind of day I’ve had, no matter how confusing or chaotic life becomes, I can find a kind of clarity in poetry. Even when I don’t know exactly what I’m feeling, writing helps me discover it.

Poetry has taught me patience. Some poems come in a rush, like sudden rain. Others take days, weeks, even months to form. I’ve learned to wait, to listen to the quiet between thoughts, to trust that the words will come.

It has also taught me empathy. To write well, you have to feel deeply—not just your own emotions, but those of others. I’ve written poems from the perspectives of strangers I’ve seen on the train, from the voice of a tree in winter, from the eyes of a child in war. Each poem helps me understand the world a little better.

I know I may never be a famous poet. My name might never appear in glossy literary magazines. That’s okay. Fame isn’t why I write. I write because I love it. Because it brings me joy. Because it helps me make sense of the beautiful, messy, aching, miraculous world we live in.

“My poetry,” I say to myself sometimes, flipping through my journals, “is my voice.” And in that voice, I find freedom. I find home.

So yes—I love to write. And I always will.