The possible writings
that could potentially flow
through the tip of my pencil,
Stop at this desk.

I’ve figured it out.
When I write,
I need to be alone.

I can’t be surrounded by a boy
that vigorously writes,
erases,
And mumbles things under his breath.

I can’t be surrounded by a girl
who looks up.
I feel as if her eyes watch me as I write.
She is the hawk,
I am her prey.
I feel as if she’s judging my work.

Because we both know,
her writing is better than mine.

Because we both know,
I don’t know the difference
between alliteration and assonance.

Because we both know,
I couldn’t write a metaphor
to save my life.

The pressure is on.

If I were alone,
I could produce a real poem.

Not a bunch of words
that don’t make sense.

One sentence on every line.
This isn’t even a poem.