I really wish I could do something besides write bad poetry.
I envy those who can grip pens-
Ideas spilling out of them onto snowy white pages-
Filling it with inky words,
Although they always seem to be the right words,
But me-
I can never describe the thoughts that live in my mind
In simple strings of letters one would find in a dictionary.
I run my fingers against the book,
Hoping it will save me.
But if I could write lines with power-
And trust me, I’ve tried-
What would it mean coming from a teenage girl
Who only pollutes the world?
I have frizzy hair and I read books on rooftops until two in the morning and I bite my tongue until it bleeds and I can’t even tell if my own eyes are hazel or brown.
The longing to fill nothingness with everything swallows me whole,
And pretty soon,
I’m scribbling words into the margins of math notes with a dull-tipped pencil I found on the floor, not even knowing how I’m putting them together, but at the same time, refusing to stop.
I don’t really know what I’m trying to say,
But then again, I need to say something,
And if the only way I can do it is through writing bad poetry during algebra lessons,
I will accept that as a part of who I am.