"Dear English Class"
-
I hope you can't see the shaking of my hands.
Hopefully you won't notice the quiver in my voice.
Because it seems like I've practiced for hours.
Trying to perfect myself into smooth neutral tones.
Creating a curtain that will close when I speak.
So you won't be able to see how truly nervous I am.
-
I shouldn't be nervous or even scared.
To read poetry to a classroom full of people.
Who barely know I exist.
But the thought of public speaking is sending.
"Fight or Flight" anxiety flying through my veins.
Do you understand why my eyes hold fear.
My poems are not words they are emotion.
They are my mind splattered across a paper.
Things even my friends have never heard me say.
Yet I'm supposed to recite them to you.
As if showing someone the hidden parts of you.
Should be as casual as saying hello.
-
I'm beginning to realize that I shouldn't be nervous.
Because it's not like anyone is actually listening.
I could pour my darkest secrets onto your desk and you wouldn't bat an eye.
You couldn't care less whether I think I'm in love.
You are consumed by your thoughts that have drifted off.
More entertained by wondering where you'll be at lunch.
I know this because I'm doing this with you.
My mind has learned how to split itself in two.
Until I'm here listening to your words
But also lost in my own thoughts.
-
I'm sorry that my poems will never make you laugh or feel warm inside.
My poetry is best at midnight when the monsters crawl out from under my bed.
To tell me stories of lost socks and broken dreams.
Discarded with the care of old pencil shavings.
That I can't seem to form into happy endings.
-
After I've shared the pieces of me with you.
Shown you the archives of my mind.
Do you think you understand it.
Because I surely don't.
And I'll ask you once more to pardon the shaking of my hands.
And to please ignore the quivering of my voice.
Or the way my weight shifts from one foot to the other
Like shy children unsure of what to do with themselves
Pretend you don't see fear in my eyes.
As I present myself to a classroom.
Full of people who barely know I exist.
Weakly attempting to entertain you.
With my suppressed memories.
Because pain always makes for good poetry.
-
{A/N: Apparently two girls nearly started crying when I read this to my English class for the second round.}
