[So here's my big project I just started. Part of it is an excuse to write crappy freestyle poetry, the other is because it's an excuse to rewatch all of Castle. It's a huge project, so beware.

Basically, Kate writes a poem about meeting Castle, and becomes obsessed with poetry. She writes at least a couple of poems for each episode. Unfortunately, she writes poetry like me; very freestyle, with nothing really cool about it. If you don't like it, I totally understand. This is more a fun activity for me.

I don't update regularly. EVER. There's even a good chance I'll get tired of this and quit halfway too. But it's already progressed into the third episode, so it'll at least have some content.

I hope you at least somewhat enjoy. I do not own anything related to Castle!]

Prologue

"All bad poetry springs from genuine feeling."

-Oscar Wilde

Her body was livid with anger; it made her eyes spark ferociously and her lip was curved in a snarl.

She was Kate Beckett; she was a cop. It was normal for her perps to be rude, to be offensive. In fact, it would be abnormal if they weren't. All a part of the job, she would often remind herself, and she would force herself to remain calm.

Unfortunately, her strategy decided to quit working as soon as he walked through those doors.

Richard Castle. Well-known crime novelist who was world-renowned for his insane parties and his love of making love. Of course, he was also the type to be used to women throwing themselves at him. So when he saw that Kate wasn't budging from her duties, he decided to become more… annoying.

God, did she hate the man. His cocky grin, his playboy mannerisms, his quick humor. Did she hate the man's writing? No, of course not; she was a die-hard fan. But did she hate the man? Hate would be a major understatement.

It didn't help that he threw her off her game.

Taking her seat at her desk, Kate twined her fingers together, leaning forward to rest her head on them. Ugh, she thought to herself as she closed her eyes. Now I'm so pissed off, I can barely concentrate.

You could always write poetry, a memory in the back reaches of her mind answered.

Sitting up suddenly, she furrowed her brow, confused. It was from the second time she had visited her old therapist, a woman with an annoyingly-soothing voice that had made her want to take one of the heavy dictionaries and use it to pound in her head. She hadn't seen the woman in years, not since she decided there was no point in trying to get over her mother's murder. Didn't even remember the woman's name. And yet, the memory had resurfaced without warning, without any reason, really.

At the suggestion of writing poetry, Kate had scoffed. She'd never been one to enjoy taking pen to paper, one to take her feelings and force them on someone fictional. Not that she hadn't given it a chance; she'd written five poems before deciding to ignore the advice, all of which were sitting in a drawer at home. At the time, it hadn't been for her.

But, now that she considered it, now that she pondered the idea, Kate realized it wasn't such a bad idea. Richard Castle did it; why couldn't she? It might get rid of some of the anger, she pondered, finally deciding to opt for writing. She could write poem. It couldn't hurt, right?

Shuffling around, Kate finally pulled out a sheet from the printer, and began writing on it.