In the third floor apartment Overlooking the street and cars below With my notebook and pencil in hand, I nestled in to meet the muse And be inspired. I had no space of my own. Just a single-subject notebook, Wire bound and lined, With the words, “Oceanography” or “Psychology 2” in large penned letters On the pastel front cover. It was my private, personal space To journal, to explore my feelings, Writing poetry As a teenager with no money And nowhere to go. So I traveled in my mind. I devoured books by VC Andrews And Stephen King. The stories and characters swirled around in my head. I often dreamed of a tropical paradise, An escape, a place of solitude and independence. I adorned my wall with a huge poster of an idyllic palm tree. That poster became my view. There is no breeze to be felt From the window When you’re on a top bunk In a small room I shared With my younger sister. I took those bored, hot summers And transformed them the best I could. Looking back, I was laying the framework on what it means to be inspired. And now I’m never bored.