The clock ticks, tocks, ticks away,

A gentle reminder that I mustn’t delay.

The clouds over my classroom gather, and down crashes thunder… 

“Why haven’t I started writing?” I wonder.

 

In an attempt to start, I scribble something down

But suddenly, my face is graced with a frown.

Noticing that I have nothing to say next,

I realize I’d rather very much write a wall of text

 

Instead of writing a poem, short and sweet,

For a chance to win a prize that can’t be beat – 

Have your work published, carefully printed in a book

Teeming with poems at which people can look.

 

My eyes dart to my friend on the right.

She’s written three limericks? Oh, what a sight!

My eyes then shift to my friend on the left.

He has seven haikus? I must be poetically bereft!

 

I look back at my paper, blood rushing to my fingers

The bitter frustration inside me still lingers.

I can’t do it, it’s as clear as day: poetry

 

Is something that should never be mixed with

     someone

           like

               me.

 

But, right as I choose to continue to mope,

Amidst the thunder outside emerges a glimmer of hope

As I realize that what matters lies deep inside.

And with that, my doubts, my worries, subside.

 

I take a deep breath, and pick up my pen

Brave like a knight, entering the dragon’s den.

I see that poetry has given me a choice – 

Let others speak for me, or share my own voice.

 

I know what I write isn’t a sham.

Because as I write out my poem, I express who I am.

Onto the paper, I pour out my heart

Poetry is, truly, an incredible art.

 

It has the ability to change one’s world

Such as mine, where endless possibilities unfurled. 

So whether it be through a sonnet, free verse, an ode or cinquain,

I can be who I am, not bound by a chain.