Poetry, when did it discover me?

I was sifting through my tucked away items, and I stumbled upon a purple composition notebook. I thought it was just an extra that I had hanging around, but I opened it. There were words. My words. All so beautiful, mostly positive. I flipped through, and I saw two beautifully written poems. Did I really write these beautiful pieces? Although they were beautiful, they had a very somber, yet slightly uplifting feel to them. I'd love so much to share them with the world, but I just can't bring myself to do so. Yes, I call it selfish. At times, one has to think about oneself before others, (except for God. That never really plays out well for me.) I just want to know, when did it become so beautiful? I've noticed that when I write poetry on the spot, it is usually this blob of characters that form sentences that may or may not rhyme. It is half-dead. It is awful. It is just down right ridiculous. When I feel an emotion, I paint my sheet of paper with words. Beautiful, heart-felt words that show the inside of my being. I'm a very private person, but if one read my artwork, it's almost like they are me. It's like EMPATHY, feeling how I felt at the first stroke of my pen. When did I become so poetic? I don't remember saying, "YES" when poetry asked for my hand. Now that poetry has discovered me, I will embrace him to the fullest.

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