These are from my eighth grade English coursework. I'm proud of them and embarrassed at once, because they were the first moment my peers ever looked at me and happily exclaimed that I could write well. Throughout the years that happened more often, but I always took it with a grain of salt, not believing nor feeling I deserved to call it my passion. A good many now know that I happily identify myself in title the same as a maker of art calls oneself an artist, or one who plays an instrument a musician; I produce literature and feel truly a writer. So without further adieu, here is something from the beginning, though I make no claim that these are excellence in literature.

If you've made it to the bottom, I apologize for the retinal pain reaching back towards the depths of your being, but I appreciate that you spent time humoring my poetry.

Thank you!