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,
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.