Writing

High expectations

For myself

Fear of failing

Is something I will never

Escape

Each red mark

On the paper

Another mark

To myself

My confidence

My pride

The papers around me

Fall is the between–between–two extremes.

Who knew betweens could be beautiful?

Because my periodic periods of time in the between

They are not always so wonderful:

It begins like fire on the horizon, 
a blaze of orange and crimson, 
leaves spiraling down like lost memories, 
the wind’s sharp bite weaving through. 

I turn away from them and gaze out the window.

The clouds gather in large gray clumps across the sky.

Painting everything below them in shades of gray.

My mind wanders to the only place I don’t ever want to go again.

The wind sings-
she gathers stories, whispering tales of people lost long ago.

she tells them to me
but I forget as soon as she is gone.

As long as I can remember, 

I always saw myself engulfed in anger, 

Repeatedly speaking out to my classmates  

For reasons I didn’t know.