I write words down on paper in creative writing class, pondering if they are the right ones.
I write answers down on tests for calculus, knowing they are the wrong ones.
I write stories in my head of the places I will go and the things I will see, reminders on my hand so I won’t forget to call my mom, poems just because I saw something beautiful today.
I write and I write and I write.
I write papers for AP Lit, hoping I’ll getting a 100, but knowing Ms. Roberts isn’t so merciful.
I write essays for college applications, ensuring the admissions boards how “bright” my future will be.
I write about life, about death, about nature and birds and leaves falling off of trees.
I write and I write and I write.
I write about what it all means, to be on this earth.
I write about not knowing.
I write about how I feel or how I will feel or that I’ve never felt anything at all, empty phrases, vague similes, lines without purpose.
I write heart-wrenching sonnets, create lively characters, break old boundaries, trying and failing and finally succeeding.
I write and I write and I write,
until I’ve used up every last word.
