I sit on a thought, as I decide my fate. An action I should have sought on a side I should take. Regarding something I forgot but think of each night I am awake. This piece that I write is neither poem nor prose. It is a recollection of personal thoughts written in a style I chose.
There was a time in my life when I couldn’t read or write and I was afflicted with a stuttering blight. I do not remember the first word I read or the first sentence I could write. All I can remember is trying to gobble them all on sight. As with all tales, there needs to be a start; at the age of six I knew “Green Eggs and Ham” by heart. At a young age, I valued the lessons Seuss had to impart: never give up, stand up for the things that make you “you” and never be afraid to try something new. And with these ideals and lessons to know, I tilled the garden for my imagination and waited for the seeds to grow.
Like kudzu, it spread. Like kudzu, it grew. My imagination took root, of which I knew not what to do. I would stay up all night telling myself stories. They lacked sustenance and were really quite boring. I turned my imagination into a movable creature with a very unique feature. Whatever I saw or felt throughout the day, my imagination was allowed to use anything it wanted within the grounds of which it played. Saturday morning cartoons became the foundation of my creative base. The landscapes of He-Man dotted my mindscape. I fought off hordes of demons with the Sword of Omens. I had no damsel to save but my second in command was Soundwave. I learned the importance of morals, ethics, and the purity of good. I vanquished evil the best way I could.
A few years later in 1988, a horrific tragedy altered my fate. I was invited to an air show in the city of Rammstein. I watched the planes and jets dance within the sky. I was amazed and amused by the propellers and jet plumes. The Italian Air Force took the stage and performed their “Cardioide”. I watched as the jets traced a heart within the sky. At that point, my imagination took hold and flipped three of the jets about. They scattered pain and agony throughout. I saw people run for cover, run to family, and run for their lives. I pulled in a deep breath and for my mother I started to cry. At the moment of exhalation, I realized she was not there to save me or protect me. All I could muster were a string of “muhs”, stuttering and stammering were my only responses. I grew scared and nervous; unable to communicate my thoughts. My head resorted to “shakes and nods” and immediately encased my imagination within a cage made of locks.
I withdrew upon myself. Always frightened to express thoughts, I became shy and reserved. I didn’t speak unless it was necessary. And out of necessity, arose a strange way for me to speak. Words, I would rearrange, in order to prevent my stutters. Sense was not made by anyone. My parents even reprimanded my backwards speaking. Within the dark, I withdrew further into my thoughts. Questions arose whose answers were scary: “Did I cause that crash? How many were hurt? How should I feel? Why couldn’t I save them?” These questions and thoughts would keep me up at night. I toss and turn, eyes heavy and body trembling with fright.
A year and a half after my altered fate, still reading books and assimilating phrases, I was placed within an accelerated reader program. I was reading books three grades to my senior. I was never scared of the tales I read. There was death and murder, mystery and disorder. I even found words placed outside of order. The Iambic Pentameter helped me keep time while Poe and his stories helped me to rhyme. From this darkness arose something similar to that of light. I wasn’t alone to tragedy’s endless plight.
I took pen to pad and started to write. I would spend my sleepless nights scribbling poems and then would carefully recite. I took deep breaths and pronounced every syllable at every step. I reinstated the words that would make me stammer, stutter and stumble. Within its cage, my imagination started to rumble. I released the locks and remembered what it was like to be free. Journals, I would keep to organize my thoughts. Poems gave me the self expression I sought.
Over time, I felt the power of my poetry. Nothing was ever sacred to me. I said what I wanted. I said what I felt. First drafts became final drafts; while final drafts became masterpieces. After one poem was published, my mind began to swirl. Which is when I decided, with my writing, I would take over the world.