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.