I remember sitting in a classroom being told to write
about whatever came to my mind, while looking at a picture.
Not hard, not being graded, so I wrote about running.
And then for extra credit we had to write a poem.
Me? Write a poem? Ha!
Now don’t get me wrong. I did enjoy writing,
and have written so many things, but poetry?
I certainly was not a poet.

Poetry is something for the dead.
You can write thousands of poems
and in a hundred years maybe you’ll get noticed.
The crazier you are, the better,
because people only like learning about people who lived crazy lives.

But extra credit is worth more than gold,
so how hard could it be to write a poem?
So I sat in my room, a day after a race and wrote about racing.
Looking back on it now, it’s probably the worst peace of poetry written. Ever.
But I was so proud of completing it and surprised by
how easy it was for all of the words to come together.
So I wrote more, and rhymed more, and crazy me
signed up for a class of poetry.

I know, I know! Only crazy people would willingly sign up
for an optional class that requires work and thinking.
But it’s my favorite class.
Because poetry gives my inner voice a chance to talk about what it feels,
even though I silenced it long ago.
It has all of my emotions, my fears, my dreams.
Even though I almost never tell anyone what I’m actually feeling.

My inner voice never speaks out loud and keeps my emotions bottled up.
But my poems are messages in bottles, floating in the sea,
that anyone could read if they found it.
And I like it like that.
And I like that I have become a poet.
Even if I never meant for it to happen,
even if it makes me crazy.
Because it makes me feel better.
Writing poetry is releasing my bottled emotions
and crafting them into words that mean so much.


And looking back on everything I’ve ever written
shows how much in just a couple of months I’ve grown.
Though, sometimes I look at my poems and wonder why I try
when they never seem good at all.
But some people tell me differently, while others agree
that they are terrible. But I hope it’s because they don’t actually enjoy poetry.

And mark my words. This crazy person is going to continue writing,
until my hands can no longer hold a pen.
Even if my words are not found until long after I am dead.