Way back in third grade is when I think it all started
Back when I was supposed to be free-willed and open-hearted,
And still laughed every time someone in class farted.
I couldn’t really relate to the other kids,
And they only really liked me for the things I did.
They liked my grades, and wanted to be friends with the smart girl,
Who was slowly becoming terrified of the whole world.
I was taken to a therapist for anxiety,
But he didn’t do as much to help me as writing.
As I wrote about whatever the teacher requested,
I felt my love for words being manifested.
Fourth grade came, along with the Writing TAKS,
The preparation for the test was my favourite task.
I loved creating worlds and making things up,
It was a distraction from all the people and growing up.
As the years went on, I still couldn’t really relate,
All my friends started getting into new things and were starting to date.
I listened to my parents, and stayed true to me,
Regardless of the turmoil that is my family.
I wrote as a way to make something new,
Something that would help others see from my point of view.
They could see my thoughts and creativity,
While I had fun escaping reality.
By eighth grade, the anxiety got worse, and school required more of my time,
And I lost some interest in the thing that made me feel fine.
I would write random thoughts into the margins of my papers while my teachers droned on and lectured
Because I had the notes, and all the work, people, and anxieties were making my actions feel censored.
But aside from abandoned projects, that’s all I wrote due to the concern for my grades each semester.
I hadn’t ever finished more than a few poems and random prompts,
So I questioned whether it was time to just forget writing and stop.
Then, I took an amazing class that reminded me of my love for words and expression,
It helped relieve me of some of my anxiety-induced depression.
This past year, through writing projects for that class and others, I remembered that I loved to write because words can’t judge me for who I am,
They can’t make me feel isolated like social interactions.
Words, written or read, are the only things I can rely on to stay the same.
Their definitions don’t change often, and I know what emotions to feel since words don’t play games.
I love writing because I understand it.
I love writing because it is my own personal outlet.
I can share my thoughts with others in a way that doesn’t leave me shaking and scared.
I can share whatever is on my mind without scrambling and stumbling over words because I’m unprepared.
I’m now entering the eleventh grade, and I can’t help but appreciate words every day,
Which is absolutely essential because they are the only thing that can help me move forward and pave my way.