Why I Write

It started in fifth grade

In the cool rooms of Southern Elementary

Fresh with the anxiety permeated from a new student

Who didn’t think much about poetry

Mrs. Coffee telling us to write a poem about what it means to be you

What it means to be me?

Well, I thought, I like to play softball and to

Take long naps while I wait for my mother to get home

So I wrote and was surprisingly praised

“You should write more,” Mrs. Coffee advised

Four little letters weaving into my future

It was rekindled freshman year

In the humid rooms of Fairfield High

Fresh with the anxiety of being surrounded by strangers

Mrs. Jenkins telling us to write a poem about what it means to be you

What it means to be me?

A somewhat battered teen?

No more superficiality such as liking softball or naps

Actual feelings and experiences

A Flower in a Landmine

That was the title

Self-proclaimed

Fitting for an innocent girl surrounded by people

Who weren’t afraid of getting a little dirty

Ticking time bombs

Who weren’t afraid of getting a little frisky

A girl who was tempted to be like everyone else