Drafts 11 through 13:

The clicks of mechanical pencils

Punctuate the words wafting through the air

Intentional isolation

(alliteration, near rhyme)

Turning pages of light blue lines covered by

Dark gray graphite script

Oh how the bitter cold

Has sung on this here night!

She whispers to the stars

And whooshes right on by

(personification, onomatopoeia, iambic trimeter)

Prologue scratched

 

Edit, revision,

Edit, edit,

Revision, re-vision:

Drafts 14 through 17:

It was —

That new school smell,

Intro to myself, and

Casual existentialism.

Abstract S.O.S. morse code

Tapping in my vocal chords.

I didn’t get the guy or the girl,

So my consolation prize was poetry.

They said they liked the sound of my voice and

I said I've never heard it before

But who's to say I never will?

I can't keep a diary so I'll learn

How to write on napkins in airport terminals instead.

 

Drafts 18 and 19:

What good is a voice if you don't speak up?

What good is a pen if you don't write truth?

Repetition won't save you now,

But there's a damn good chance

You can save someone else so

Don't start a fire hazard holding onto

Old drafts piling up —

Take inventory,

Remember, then discard. You see,

A heart isn't meant to keep things in,

It takes what it's given,

Holds it briefly,

And let's it go.

Your turn.

Edit.

Revise.

Begin Draft 20