A poem never begins with ink. It starts as a whisper standing quietly in the corner of the mind, waiting for the world to stop talking. It arrives wearing ordinary clothes the smell of rain, an old photograph, a dog's faithful eyes, or a memory that refuses to grow old. The first word is always the hardest. It stares back from an empty page like a closed door, asking only one question: Do you have the courage to open me? Then something changes. A sentence becomes a heartbeat. A heartbeat becomes a rhythm. A rhythm becomes a voice that somehow knows more about you than you knew yourself. You cross out lies. You circle truths. You chase the perfect word only to discover it had been waiting patiently three lines behind you. When the final period falls, the poem is no longer yours. It belongs to the stranger who reads it on a difficult day, to the widow searching for tomorrow, to the child learning hope, to the dreamer who almost gave up. Perhaps that is what writing a poem has always been Not arranging words upon paper, but building a bridge from one human heart to another, one honest line at a time. By Jason Strickland