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,

“PLEASE STUDY.”

 

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.