Beautiful, truthful words can’t be spoken without being thrown out by others.
This is why I throw all my little, meaningful words into a pretty little box…
They are for no one else to see but me.
Because I am not a poet in societies’ eyes,
I’m a 16 year-old girl stuck in suburbia.
So when the teacher picked my essay to read aloud to the entire class,
I shuttered in fear as I heard my own words.
They came out of that pretty little box for the simple purpose of earning an A.
And for once, they were spoken, and heard, and they were mine.
My words that had before, been locked on the page as Times New Roman font,
Began to scatter around the classroom.
To me they were beautiful, smart, and confident.
But to the ears of others they sounded like a radical author’s latest work.
My words trickled off the page
“Women were being made into a government symbol of hope”
I felt bright,
I felt exposed.