This was done for a class project junior year… It mirrors another poem… Fury of overshoes by something saxton i think… don’t quote me on that it was forever ago. This one still makes me giddy cause i like it so much.
They march in a line,
only one at a time,
flowing together to
create a tale.
Remember when you couldn’t
write your own
words
or read your own
handwriting
or when the bow on your strings
wouldn’t play the right
rhythm?
Remember, young Monet,
when you couldn’t
design a masterpiece,
only to draw like
mud on the floor?
The world wasn’t yours.
It belonged to
the smart ones.
In your closet,
lived the dragon
and he would roar
each time daddy snored
in the room next door.
They made you give up
your crayons for pens,
your play time for homework,
and your naps for tests.
Oh words,
don’t you remember me,
using you to describe
the first character,
of my first book?
Oh naps,
I want to dream
a dream worth writing.
Where are the smart ones,
when will I write,
with big words that
flow,
and march,
right off the page?