Writing

Clock ticking

impatiently waiting

for 3:15 

to strike.

Last class

smiles ringing across

the room, eyes

never leave

the time.

Laughter fills

the last day

of the week,

I am not a poet 
I don’t know how to use my words the way they can
I can’t captivate the minds of my friends by stringing them along with the simplest of words 

I am not a musician 

You might want to be a fly on the wall,

Discover what people really think,

What people say when you’re not around.

You don’t want to be a bug on the windshield,

I stood in the crowd 
My feet cemented to the ground 
Just basking in the light of something that would slowly fade 

I could hear the high pitched ringing 
A reminder of a past days sacrifice 

Every day — 

Monday through Thursday, 

starting at 2:30 pm, 

I grew wings. 

Peaking when reaching for the birdie. 

Gusts of wind and floods were my fuel to hit the

there's just so much I want to say, to pour out from me into you

but where to begin?

it begins home, at home, my head, the house, the lawn

the yard where I begin to understand how to be a human being