We are writers, scrawling ideas on the sides
of notebooks, frantically tearing out the paper
and sticking it in our pockets. We highlight
our favorite parts of you, write hearts
beside the beautiful things you say,
place sticky notes of every shade
because we realize
that not everything can be contained on a page.
We are writers, dog-earing books
even though we aren't "supposed to"
when something needs to be reread,
enjoyed more than one time. We know
that even a disliked book has something
that we can learn.
We are writers, understanding
that there is always time to improve,
even with published books.
There is no such thing as permanence
yet we dare to write in sharpie. Red ink
suffocating our work is our biggest fear,
but it reminds us that everyone needs an editor.
We are writers, analyzing others’ work
as much as our own. My classmates are scrambled
figurative language. Some are repetition,
constantly telling me and others how great
our work is. Others are oxymorons, student teachers
and neon pastels. A few are imagery, self portraits
sketched only in blue or black pen. Several are allusions,
sharing rough draft personality traits and scribbled out ponderings.
My teacher is an onomatopoeia: Her belief in us never crackles.
We are writers. We speak loudly but we write louder.