Be it the birds from the window, the longing, the flight,

I had ideas that strings of words could carry me over any papery wall.

But first they had to begin.

Born as strings of emotions strapped to the backs of led-tipped bears- they waited.

I told myself there’s something about the silence.  

Sitting in a chair: “CREATIVE WRITING” on the board. 

With words in my eyes I needed a poem in order to begin.

As the emotions grew older they gave way to words as I spilled forth their childish ways.  

Some were sad, some were glad, others quite quiet, many more mad.

I told myself there’s something about the silence.  

Be it my teacher, the deadline, the moment itself,

I had ideas of sending spirals of water across my hands, the kind that come from within.

I let the words simmer, wither and cry before I picked them back up and lifted them high.

I rolled up the paper and clipped on the sash before turning them in, still children at heart were my words.

I told myself there’s something about the silence.  

My poem returns as a fledged adult, no longer a child as I take my words and depart.

In the months that follow the chairs are gone and “CREATIVE WRITING” no long dons a board.

Now my own teacher- each time I reach for a led-tipped bear I feel new strings itching.

My words have grown and developed and while their strings fail to cross every papery wall,

I know that there’s still something about the silence.