These walls are cluttered
with the scribblings
of clumsy hands.
Small fingers clench markers
too big to hold tight enough
to articulate dreams
too great to let go of.
Us “grown ups” know nothing
of imagination.
For children, walls are like canvases.
Blank and approachable.
Ready to be changed, shaped, and molded
by their minds,
but at some point that free
will to create is abandoned.
At some point we forget
what it means to create
something spectacular
without trying,
to love it endlessly
and effortlessly
as it begs us to let it speak for itself.

I often write with the frantic passion
of my class full of 3-year-olds.
Small hands empty
of inhibition
just trying to get my feelings out,
but sometimes, I get caught up
in the tough stuff--
hung up on the perfect word--
my anger or fear
getting in the way.
What if they see it?
What if it hurts?

I close my eyes, desperately
trying to channel my inner child.
for permission to cry, to scream.
She reminds me
my story is my own,
no matter who is listening.
so tell it loud and true.

She brings the walls down.
She was always so brave.


Additional Resources

Get AI Feedback on your poem

Interested in feedback on your poem? Try our AI Feedback tool.


If You Need Support

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741