The clock ticks, tocks, ticks away,
A gentle reminder that I mustn’t delay.
The clouds over my classroom gather, and down crashes thunder…
“Why haven’t I started writing?” I wonder.
In an attempt to start, I scribble something down
But suddenly, my face is graced with a frown.
Noticing that I have nothing to say next,
I realize I’d rather very much write a wall of text
Instead of writing a poem, short and sweet,
For a chance to win a prize that can’t be beat –
Have your work published, carefully printed in a book
Teeming with poems at which people can look.
My eyes dart to my friend on the right.
She’s written three limericks? Oh, what a sight!
My eyes then shift to my friend on the left.
He has seven haikus? I must be poetically bereft!
I look back at my paper, blood rushing to my fingers
The bitter frustration inside me still lingers.
I can’t do it, it’s as clear as day: poetry
Is something that should never be mixed with
But, right as I choose to continue to mope,
Amidst the thunder outside emerges a glimmer of hope
As I realize that what matters lies deep inside.
And with that, my doubts, my worries, subside.
I take a deep breath, and pick up my pen
Brave like a knight, entering the dragon’s den.
I see that poetry has given me a choice –
Let others speak for me, or share my own voice.
I know what I write isn’t a sham.
Because as I write out my poem, I express who I am.
Onto the paper, I pour out my heart
Poetry is, truly, an incredible art.
It has the ability to change one’s world
Such as mine, where endless possibilities unfurled.
So whether it be through a sonnet, free verse, an ode or cinquain,
I can be who I am, not bound by a chain.