My First Love Was a Poem

Every now and then, I like to pull back the curtain—just a little—to let you peek at the lens I see the world through. I’m not chasing grand epics or earth-shaking headlines. I’m more interested in the small moments that most people might pass by: the slant of light on a dinning table, the way two strangers share a quiet smile, the first hydrangea bloom of summer. These are the things that shape my stories, and, I hope, help you understand the heart behind them.

This is one of those stories.

I didn’t grow up thinking I was a writer. And truthfully, I’m still not sure that’s what I am. I aspire to be a storyteller—one who notices the small things, the everyday moments, the beauty in the ordinary. In school, writing usually meant essays and book reports about topics I couldn’t care less about. They were tidy assignments with no heartbeat, no soul.

Poetry, though—that’s always been my first love. The first poet I remember truly loving was Langston Hughes. His words were simple but carried music. He could fold a whole life into a few lines, make you feel joy and ache in the same breath. He once wrote, “Life is for the living. Death is for the dead. Let life be like music. And death a note unsaid.” That’s how I want my storytelling to feel—alive, with a little music lingering between the lines.

I sometimes wish I could tell every story here in poems, but I know I’d lose some of you along the way. Poems—real ones—take their time. They need to be built, shaped, and polished until they hum. And honestly? My brain tends to jump tracks like a kid on a sugar high. I’ve got a graveyard of unfinished projects—half-painted walls, half-read books, half-written poems. If this blog depended on me posting only poetry, we wouldn’t be here having this conversation. Most of my life happens in 45-minute bursts, followed by a 15-minute snack/reset/scroll before I start all over again. Poems don’t always play nice with that schedule.

For my day job—the one that pays the bills—I do a lot of professional writing. Polished. Precise. Often tied to deadlines and someone else’s rules. This space is different. This is where I can be more creative, where I can wander if I want to, and tell the stories I please.

So instead, I’ll tell you stories. Short ones, snapshots of moments that matter. But don’t be surprised if, every now and then, a line of poetry slips in—a little rhythm or image that insists on being heard.

And the poems?

I’ll keep them in my quiet journal—

until they decide they’re ready

to come find you.

– The Wallflower