I would call myself many things before a poet.

 

The smell of mahogany and rain

Pressed and pleated plaid skirts

And rosaries around our necks

Muddy sneakers and bruised knees

And a particular incline to daydream.

 

On the day that she assigned us a haiku to write

I don’t remember much.

I was frustrated, discouraged, and moments away from ripping my hair out.

My paper was more black than white,

Scribbles and crossed out words and chicken scratch handwriting.

 

My first poem was about rain.

Some cookie-cutter haiku about how each raindrop is unique and special

Written in the accidental shape of a raindrop due to my many scribblings and failed attempts.

When the teacher called us up one by one,

To go over our work,

I sat at her desk longer than anyone else.

She was impressed, I thought that I sucked.

 

My second poem

A pitiful haiku about snow falling.

I don’t remember it much now

I won a white ribbon for it at the state contest.

The 4th grade gossip sparked by my arch-nemesis,

a girl with plain features and a menacing glare,

was that I had our teacher write the poem for me.

 

At the award ceremony, I had to get up and accept my ribbon and say thank you.

This task might have been daunting for most fourth graders

But I used to reading passages out of the bible at school.

I said that my mom had inspired me to write poetry

I think my mom has written one poem in her life.

I remember the white ribbon with gold lettering “Honorable Mention”

And the laugh of the crowd as I said my mother inspired me,

I still don’t understand that part.

 

I kept a floral journal with a lock and key in my armouir

I wrote cheesy, rhyming poems about how I hated school

Using anything and everything that rhymed and was a word in my world.

 

And then I stopped, just like my dad’s heart.

I placed importance on other things

Like trying to fit in at a new school with girls in a completely different league

And I was never forced to write a poem again.

 

I made up poems in my head while in the shower,

Mostly about mythological gods and goddesses

They were beautiful, strong women who were a force to be reckon with.

They were more, they were everything that is, was, and will be.

Their laughs shook the ground and they were eternal.

 

In my sophomore year of high school, I was forced to write again.

This time to personify a feeling of our choice,

The list of choices was optimistic:

Love, Courage, Happiness, Excitement, Joy

I choose Anxiety.

My poem was riveting and dark,

Nails down chalkboards and what creeps under your bed

The darkest thoughts that you couldn’t possible say

It felt real, it felt personal.

Later, my teacher would tell me that it scared her.

She was impressed, I thought that I sucked.

 

The more times I read it, the more I hated every word. I thought

Why write if it’s not great. If you can’t be

“The Best”

What’s the point?

 

Sometimes it is hard to appreciate each raindrop

When you know they’ll be more.

Is something more valuable if it’s the last?

 

I still struggle with hating my writing,

Both prose and poetry

But I’m working on it.

 

I’ve given up rhyming

And most of my words will never see paper

But maybe someday, something I write

Will be good enough for me.

And they will all be impressed.