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.



This poem is about: 


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