Forced to come to school each day,

I think I should be getting paid.

Lunch packed in a brown bag,

All that is left is my brother to start the car.

He is such a lag.

 

 

I get to school and people are already in there cliques.

The jocks in one area,

Doing their thing,

The cheerleaders in another,

Just gossiping.

 

 

People pass by,

Time passes by,

And finally English.

 

 

All I can think is,

“I can’t wait for it to be lunch,

I hope my mom packed me some Captain Crunch.”

 

 

But no,

I have to sit here and write this poem.

This is going to be gruesome.

 

 

I’ve got words to rhyme,

Under a limit of time.

And I’m not even paid a dime.

I don’t like to write poems when I’m told to.

I need to be inspired.

Not just write them when they’re desired.

 

 

But I’m afraid,

This counts toward my grade.

I still think I should be getting paid.

 

 

So how about I tell you about why I write?

I hope you find it such a delight.

 

 

Writing is a way to tell my story,

Either about others or myself.

From my point of view.

 

 

Somewhere along the way,

You might find clues,

Of what I went through.

I don’t write out of boredom or to entertain.

I write to show my pain.

 

 

Writing is my muse.

But sometimes people get confused.

Wondering why I write about me and others being abused.

The answer is simply because I can. 

You’ll probably never understand.