And so it begins

I don't remember the exact moment in time when I realized I needed to write. I've always been a highly perceptive person, I interpret body language, feelings, sounds, sights in ways that aren't always direct. I guess you could say I speak the language beneath the language. I've been thinking about the first piece of poetry that moved me, showed me that you can say so much by saying so little. Reading out loud in my tenth grade classroom this piece struck a chord inside of me.


Strange Fruit
Southern trees bear strange fruit,
Blood on the leaves and blood at the root,
Black bodies swinging in the southern breeze,
Strange fruit hanging from the poplar trees.

Pastoral scene of the gallant south,
The bulging eyes and the twisted mouth,
Scent of magnolias, sweet and fresh,
Then the sudden smell of burning flesh.

Here is fruit for the crows to pluck,
For the rain to gather, for the wind to suck,
For the sun to rot, for the trees to drop,
Here is a strange and bitter crop.