I won third place in my sixth-grade poetry contest,

With the first poem I ever wrote,

And that day I felt like my poem was the best.


I hit seventh grade,

And finished my writing program with an F,

On my report card,

And I hated seeing all the red on my paper,

Wondering when writing became so hard.


Essay guides were shoved at me,

And teacher notes said in bold,



It seemed that I was not good at writing,

And I started to doubt my yellow ribbon,

Among other things.


I grew into ninth grade and I applied,

To the best writing school around,

But they put me under “waiting list,”

And there was no longer something in me,

Called optimist.


I heard the people say,

Wondering in my title “poet” was real,

“Can she write good?”

And I let writer’s block hit me,

Harder than it should.


My fingers didn’t touch a pen,

Except to cross out red,

With a deep and dark blue,

The color of my feelings,

Matching in shade and hew.


I guess I finally learned something,

From the red and one letter alphabet,

Echoing in my head,

And that is:

A writer’s words can never be dead.






Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s