I wrote to create. Reaching deep into the recesses
of my mind, I pulled what whimsical ideas sprouted there and pushed the ball
point pen along the blank white lines. I often drew
my ideas from colorful sources - their amalgamations painting something unique.
Strangely, they always came out poorly for my hands never played
recorder very well.
I wrote to complete. Discarding previous knowledge, I regurgitated
someone else’s style for A mark of honor.
Requirements atop of requirements got me quite agitated,
and so I stopped.
Until, of course, my teacher Ms. O’conner
had yelled at me until my ears had nearly popped.
I wrote to learn-
to learn that that mark had Dimmed the light in my dale of creativity.
That letter, marred in the scarlet blood of my imagination,
stifled growth and praised conformity. For three gruesome years I delved
into that heart of darkness, painting myself blank like whited sepulchres.
There is no freedom in drawing within the lines,
Nor is there any fr ee dom
stairs of style of another poet.
I write to remember the shifting faces of innocent villager children reaching out towards me.
I write to sing the song of the incongruous cultures that I have encountered.
I write to capture emotions that extend beyond the limit of other mediums,
and I write to achieve self-understanding.