I Live it: Not Write it

"Everyone, take your seats! Now, I want everyone to write me a poem. No restrictions. Just write what is special to you." What is special to me? My family? Too over done. Any interests? Not really. Look down at the textbook that lies here. Just paper. And cardboard. Red cardboard. Red with black waves to stream through the middle. A hint of green, perhaps? The colors all match up so perfectly. They were meant to be together. They crash on top of each other, like ex lovers with one last night of pure lust. No way. It's just a text book. Nothing special. A tap on the shoulder. "Excuse me, do you know the time?" The time? Why, I think it is 11:30. Can it be that late? Lean the head down watch the seconds tick away. This life is just ticking away. But I embrace it. Look at the circular perfection of time. It can't be mistaken. It's perfect. But not ideal. Stop! It's just the time of day. Nothing special. The bell rings and we file out. I stop. There's a ringing in my ear from the muffled voices in the hall. If you listen closely, though, Each muffled voice has a story to tell. "My mom kicked my step dad out last night." "She loves me! I can't believe she chose me!" "I'm still afraid of the dark." People's secrets and desires. Their lives. Together, muffled noise. Individually, stories. Snap out of it! People are just talking in the hall. Nothing special. Get home. Search for my notebook. Dreading what comes next. Writing this idiotic poem. What am I supposed to write about? My cats? Seriously? Then, it splashes on me, like a bucket of cold water. The words echo through me once again. "Just write what is special to you." What is special to me? The pen slams onto the paper. I just start to write. The textbook. Time passing by. Individual stories. They all impacted my thoughts. They were all special to me. I finish the last stanza. I read over it a few times. And I realize that poetry is not written. Poetry is living. Living in me and you. Just some people decide to write it down.