Imperfect Poet

Poetry, short stories and other things.


September 2016

When I grow up…

What do you want to be when you grow up?

I have heard this question so many times before. And every time I was able to answer it confidently. A writer, an actress, an event planner, a cake designer, a hotel manager, a drama teacher, a preacher,a psychologist.

And this list goes on and on and on.

As you can deduct, I have grown a lot in my time and so have my interests. But since I was able to read, all I ever wanted to do was write. I wanted to write stories and books and even poems once I started to understand them. I wanted to feel a pen in my hand or my fingers running over a keyboard. I loved to see how the words grew as my story unfolded. I always dreamed of living in an old house looking over some beautiful view, whether it be of city lights or the ocean, I did not care.

Yet soon enough I realized that this dream would always be just that: a dream.

A writer is someone who is able to create a new word or put into words that which people g to hear or to see or to feel and I am definitely NOT that person. I can’t even put into words that which I feel. I can’t even capture that which already exists. How then am I supposed to be the person that creates a whole new world for people to escape to?

What do I want to be when I grow up?

I used to be dream of all that I could be in the far future in which that question would be answered. Yet here I sit: the future staring me in the face, screaming this question at me and I have no idea what I am supposed to say.

What am I supposed to be when I grow up when I can’t even do the only thing that I am mildly good at?



Early morning

Early morning, rise and shine.

Early spring, hot and cold and


Early September, busy bodies

and worker bees


from early morning

until late night

and they miss the beauty

of early spring

so early in the morning.

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