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.