Writing this poem was really relieving because I had yet to express this “thing”, this personal feeling, that has been pricking at me for days. I tried several times, several poems to get at it, but I grew tired of trying. What a perfect excuse to get it done, to have a sonnet due the first thing the next day. I had to write this, get it done, express it no matter what, for my grade’s sake. This pressure of having to do it no matter what seemed to open floodgates to creativity, because I was no longer griping over every word. I was free to write and just say it. This poem was also relieving because up to this day, I had a growing feeling that I just sucked at this whole poetry thing, and I was a fool for just stepping my foot seriously into it, so it was nice just writing a complete poem, that actually felt and read like a poem.

I’m itching the world
Trying to scratch the parts that need itching
Bitching at its wounds
Restlessly stitching at its innocent wombs

I’m fidgeting with a plastic toy of my childhood
Trying to make it come alive once again
But it stays still and looks back at me like a wise monk
Adolescence demands like a sad scene of a toy story sequel

Sometimes it’ll rattle to life in a mechanical glitch
And speak in odd, gyrating machine sounds, in a twitch
Shaking wildly on the floor in a manic fury

And I try to tell it don’t hurry!
For we have all the time in the world!
And then, like a burning sheet of paper, it curls.