Beginnings

Welcome, inquisitive and curious readers, to my first blog. Allow me to begin our relationship with a story. Once upon a time there was a young writer with a passion for the written word. He wrote everything that came into his head, his pen barely left his hand, so that his friends and family thought him crazy. Then he decided to make something of this strange interest: he would write a book, and did so in merely a month. It was his finest work, so fine that he wrote another, and another, peppering his days between with small projects like bits of poetry and first chapter after first chapter.
Then, having written his first novels he attempted the next logical step: he would get them published. A year and a half, and quite a bit poorer, this young writer discovered that the best way to be published was to show an agent that he had already been published. Facing a conundrum worthy of the most fatalistic Yossarian he despaired for a time, until he came to a decision: he would be published, even if he had to throw his works into the deep waters of that raging river called the Internet. Thus he began a blog.
So there you have it, curious readers, a tale of naivete, heartbreak and hope. As a reward for the faithful reader still listening to these dull words I offer a dear gift. Here is the one and only piece of work I've ever published until this very moment. It is called Breakfast. Enjoy.

Breakfast
Bring me a plate of the morning sun
Roasted a golden bronze between toast
And a glass of milk
Scramble up some white clouds
Spiced with the birds in the sky
And the airplanes speared on a two pronged fork
Simmer a bowl of blue sky
With white strands slowly drifting
Like steam in my nose, drizzling from
An enticed tongue
Boil for me a star
As black as tea
Angrily biting with spikes of heat
Too alive to be sipped but slowly
Then roast me up a sunset
In orange sauce, reddening to deep purple,
Slowly sinking along its viscous glaze
And finally serve me the deepest night
Dark and blue, smooth and speckled
With sugary flakes
Colors slowly coming forth
Rising through clear syrup
Which, of course, is best served chilled
Before allowing me a glass of cold moon
Creamy and soft
So that I may sleep dreams
Of ripe tomorrows
And coming feasts.