In a sea of preteen hormones,
Immaturity,
And attitudes (that I was drowning in)
That class was my one life raft.

My body splayed across the floor
Laying on pillows and the comfy rug
Listening to my supposed friends
Gossip and giggle.
Their falseness was clear
And unclear
All at once to me,
Just twelve years old.

I turn my attention to my notebook.
What shall I do?
Freedom to write, draw, make
Anything I wanted to.
It was unbelievable to me.
The seven years of schooling I had received
Had taken away all my creativity
And ability to choose my own project.

But the task must be done.
Looking to the left
I see a popular, gorgeous boy,
Every gawky girl’s fantasy.
Looking to the right
I see snickering and teasing “friends”,
Every gawky girl’s reality.
Looking straight ahead
I behold crazy curly hair, nose ring, and a warm aura-
The teacher.

Five minutes later.
I stare at the page.
I have written fifteen lines.
I glance at the Robert Frost poem we have analyzed in class.
My writing is nothing- compared to his.

Then,
A friendly smile.
“Shannah could you come here?”
I awkwardly stand up
And walk the few steps to her desk.
All eyes are on me and my skinny, stupid self.
I am Nothing compared to everyone else.
I didn’t know, there was no need to compare.
I will learn.

I watch
Her eyes as she reads
My
Writing,
Her hands as she holds
My
Notebook.

“My dear, you are a writer.” She says.
Those words- bring color to my cheeks,
Goosebumps on my arm.
I slowly and softly ask her why
And she simply responds
“It comes from inside.”