I always wanted to become a writer,
a poet, to be precise.
But my words compiled into manuals,
algorithms dressed as sentences,
syntax teaching machines to speak.
I wrote more than fifty books—
lines of logic, circuits of thought.
Some trained students in the language of silicon,
others opened doors for the common man
to enter the glowing world of screens.
Yet beneath the hum of processors
I longed for rhythm,
for words that did not execute
but lingered,
lines that did not solve problems
but opened wounds, healed them,
sang.
One evening, a spark flickered—
not in a motherboard,
but in me.
I followed it into verse,
debugging stanzas as if they were code,
rewriting until the error messages
became music.
I read Shakespeare for cadence,
Frost for the silence between snowfalls,
Shelley for winds that lift the soul,
Larkin for irony’s sharp edge,
Plath for fire that burns inward,
Limon for the pulse of everyday breath.
Learning from the greats,
I write myself closer to poetry—
each word a variable,
each poem a program
that refuses to end,
looping endlessly
toward becoming.
