I held a pencil and scribbled
the worlds of Emma Lynn the orphan,
William in 2046, and the little girl who blew a dandelion and how the seeds scattered the Earth.
Tiny body danced under lights with butterflies and sweat, even acted in a movie.
Working my freaking ass off in school
had to be the best
with twelve colleges and the president of three groups not to mention cross country and rep theatre marching band and science research,
A johnson county girl who won't get much financial aid but with three siblings still can't afford out of state.
Abby died. Time.
Couldn't cry for two years.
I don't want to be a brat so I starved my body and learned to cry with blood.
Then I grew up.
I wanted to be saving lives a neuroscientist,
an actress to shows little girls they don't have to starve themselves to be loved
I fell in love and all I want to do is be a part-time teacher and raise babies to someday have their own babies that are happy and healthy,
be happy and healthy,
maybe later I'll be a superhero
and write books
But tell me why can't I write a good enough poem here?
everyone is so talented I can't even pretend
I mean I know this is no poem (in fact it's embarrassing) and I sure as hell
don't want this to be critiqued
I have not edited it at all
two) I'm scared to edit it
three) I can't even tell what good is anymore
and that scares me because I have scholarships depending on my writing
and at this moment as I type
I can feel my whole eighteen years and one month
pressing on my butterflies
and it makes me want to cry because I know life is going so so fast
so I wonder why I even care about this poem that isn't a poem
I want to touch others but
I'm just here to reproduce after all
Just some thoughts to share, this type of poem I don't normally write... please don't use this as evidence of my writing abilities.