Poetry found me in grade seven. My English teacher introduced some classic on an overhead projector, and I found myself swallowed whole by it. The simplicity, the complexity, the backwardness, the straight-forwardness: it all made perfect sense to me. Words on their own are like people--they maintain varying degrees of energy and strength. But when they connect in the right ways, they can move mountains. (Sorry about the lame cliche. It just worked.)

Anyway, in grade seven I absorbed poetry, like a 5 foot tall language sponge. And I pumped out pages upon pages of it.

Being the packrat that I am, I still have a good number of my early poems. The poem that I am posting below was written for my good friend Karissa Grube, who I've unfortunately lost touch with somewhere along the line. I like this poem a lot, probably because I remember my father praising me for it once. I haven't touched it since grade seven.

It's called "Toolbox"

In the toolbox
are tools.
With them you can create
anything you wish.
You can create memories,
both inside and out.
Make changes.
Bring back what's changed.
In the toolbox
are tools.
The toolbox is your mind.
The tools are your hands.
Your senses.
You.
These tools are more powerful
than the best drill,
and more unique than each keyhole.
Open the toolbox
and the first thing you will find
is yourself.