IsabelleRose

I wonder how the school must look now.
Its hallways bathed in eerie silence,
snow pants still on their hooks,
animal posters hung up in the science room,
clothes and shoes and hockey gear
flung haphazardly around the basement,

Silence has a music of its own,
a melody,
as we all sit there around the table.
All the words
and thoughts
and feelings
rise up out of our bodies,
and weave together,
dancing in the air,

There is a girl who sits at the edge of the classroom. Her long brown hair is in a braid down her back and she pushes her glasses further up along the bridge of her nose. She is called smart, intelligent, and even perfect.

Sometimes you fall
into a pit
and you don't know how to get out.
Sometimes you think
everything you do
is wrong.
What do other people think?
Why can't you do anything right?
Sometimes you just can't understand something

I don't know how to go about writing poetry.
Or even if I want to,
or if I should.
Or if my words mean anything after all.
What is the point
of something like poetry?
What good are a few words,
against the world?