Tick tock,
tick tock.
Time passing by,
brain buzzing with unanswerable questions:
why can’t I just sleep now?
The desk looks as comfortable as metal can be.
“One last thing,”
the teacher chimes in.
Que the groans,
the howls of angry wolves.
This can not be good.
“I have an assignment for you.”
Our eyes glaze over,
our minds think of a way out:
“Dog ate my homework.”
“I was tired. Sleep is more important, is it not?”
“Screw you.”
“I want you to write a poem.”
That seals the deal,
the groans turn to cries of anguish.
Please,
oh please let this be a dream.
If only...
Time passes,
the art of procrastination becomes too much work.
Pen to paper,
thoughts recorded in chicken scratch.
Writing.
The basic facts that define me:
14 years of age,
freshman,
wannabe writer.
Oh, give me a break.
This infinitesimal school is my holding cell,
forever chained in this horrid place.
Filled with horror,
I look for an escape route.
So different,
yet so much the same.
The scenery here never changes.
A metal box is my chariot,
my guarantee to a higher education:
a minivan.
Day after day,
wash,
rinse,
repeat.
A wake up call so early,
the rooster isn’t even up yet.
Feet dragged out of bed,
onto the cold ground:
a walking zombie.
7 hours and gone,
out the door and out of control.
If only I didn’t have to come back.
But there’s always tomorrow.
“Am I liked?”
“Why don’t I have a boyfriend?”
“Do I look fat in this?”
My mind is swirling with this stuff,
trapped in the crystal ball that is my brain.
If only it could tell the future.
But I know one little detail,
the cement to my brick,
the glue to the collage:
writing.
Forever and ever,
through the dark days of the womb to the brightness of the real world,
I will always write.
The scratch of pencil to the notebook,
rhythmic tapping of fingers on keys,
music to my ears.
The way the ink smears with a brush of my hand,
the red underline,
a warning:
spellcheck.
For writing is my thing,
my it factor.
Quality lacking,
I keep going.
Because for more than possible,
it brings me hope.
Me.