Kristin Briones
6 May 2011
FD5
I wasn’t always a big fan of writing. Growing up, I hated when my teacher would assign a research paper or essay. I didn’t mind the reading part because since I was three years old I preferred books over toys. The topics were boring and structured and limited my creativity. So instead of doing my assignment, I’d pick up a book. Silently, I would make a bargain with myself that I’d write the paper later.
By the eighth grade, I’d become bored with the tales of little girls living on the prairie and twelve-year old wizards defeating mysterious figures in black cloaks. That’s when I started writing poetry and my love for creative writing began. I was able to create my own characters and have them go on fantastic adventures.
Eventually, I found poetry. I had found something to help me deal with not only my boredom, but my stress as well. All I had to do was open my notebook and break free from the constraints of my life.
The smell of the fresh college lined pages waft through the still night air. I quickly flip to an unused page. A blank sheet of paper might be intimidating to most people. To me, I see a wide open space to create something new and wonderful. I grab a pencil and make sure to have an eraser handy. I take a deep breath in and close my eyes. Suddenly, an idea flashes across my mind like a shooting star against the pitch black night. I stare to my right and smile like I’m looking into a camera that’s watching my every move. I begin to write.
The words flow so easily. I”m in the zone and my concentration won’t be broken. Each word is handpicked to guarantee a perfect phrase. I don’t worry about grammar or spelling. That’s the computer’s job when I’m through. I only erase if my handwriting is ugly, it has to be just right. My eyes are glued to the processed sheet of tree bark. My tiny right hand moving lightning fast across the page.
People see the girl I’m truly not.
Hiding behind the pretty mask I bought.
Argyle sweaters, pastels, bright pink nail polish.
The stereotype I wish to abolish.
Memories of the past flow through my veins.
Blood, bile, fused with a hint of spit still remain.
Dripping and staining my hospital gown.
Slipping from realities shore, I drown.
Layered, raven, shiny, silky locks.
Life tick tock's by slowly like broken clocks.
Little miss perfect, who never does wrong.
Just another musician in life’s painful song.
Preps are mostly shiny, happy people.
Inside I rot at the core of my soul.
Muffled cries linger through the blackened sky.
No one to hear or to wonder why.
I brandish a knife with stains of crimson blood.
Slashing friends’ backs, in their eyes tears did flood.
The girl with every hair in its place.
My alter ego with a different face.
Upper class, looks like I have all the power.
Who knew a prep could be a wallflower?
People who don’t know me think I’m snobby.
It must be the way I look…probably.
Make believe and fairy tale princesses.
The starry night contains my deepest wishes.
Dreams torn at the seams, revealing nightmares.
Wanting to run from my darkest fears.
Run to the middle of nowhere and stay.
Most times making a clean getaway.
Living in fear of the sickness within.
Battling myself, I know I can’t win.
Slave to the orange, plastic pill bottle.
The contents of my stomach turn mottle.
I wish I could be the girl everyone sees.
When faced with a problem my mind flees.
Into a world of my creation.
A plot line for my manipulation.
Where the spotlight always shines on my face.
Loved round the “world” for my style and grace.
There I hide daily away from the crowd.
Conversations never spoken out loud.
Staring blankly into the blackness of night.
The future is a mystery shrouded in fright.
I smile widely and pump my fist in celebration. Another amazing work of art is complete.
I close my notebook and sigh like the weight of the world had been lifted. That’s who I was, no exceptions and certainly no apologizes.
I was seventeen when I wrote that poem. My English teacher had asked everyone in the class to write any epic poem about themselves using the decasyllable style that Chaucer used to write The Canterbury Tales. To this day, it remains my favorite piece. It was the first poem I had written that allowed me to completely open myself to an audience. The piece highlights both my vulnerable and down to earth sides.
My friends might be able to solve trigonometry equations, fix X-Ray machines, design skyscrapers, or speak and write in three different languages. This is what I can do. This is who I was born to be. I lay it all on the line, in my own words for all the world to see. When I have that pencil in my hand, all my fears drift away.
I believe that words are the most powerful weapon in a person’s arsenal. Words can make people fall in love, end friendships, and can even lead a person to take their own life. Those who are blessed with the gift of words should be proud. Not just anyone can string together a random chain of words and hope they fit. I’ve found my calling and my imagination sets me free every time.
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