Nerves racing,

heart pounding,

I walk up to the stage.

I have to read this poem

(just some words written on a page).

They're Robert Frost's

"Wind and Window Flower"

so beautiful but far;

and here I am, I'm just a child,

but could I be a star?

I won the contest;

I got first place, 

but the words still weren't mine.

I wanted them to be

and so I started

writing, writing, writing.

I started writing my own poetry.