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