Wonderwall

Chapter 1

We fought again yesterday

Your sorrows drowned in whiskey

Mine drowned in poetry.

Our anger reflecting like a mirror.

A tear slides down,

My freckled cheek.

I wasn't expecting conflict

Especially this week.

For I grow weak,

My bones oh so brittle

My voice cracks

I find it hard to speak.

I quiver in the night,

These tears seem endless.

For without your love,

I am only worthless.

Hold me now,

Our fight is done.

You love me again,

And I now see the sun.

My heart depends,

On love alone.

What shall happen to me,

If I'm left all alone.

"You have a real talent you know?" A voice interrupts my writing. My paper-mate pen rests on the lined paper, recovering from the harsh words it's written. I look up to find Mr Cooper gazing downwards at my open journal that rests atop my wooden desk.

"Thanks" I push an awkward smile to him as he leans forward onto my desk even more. The students around the room start to take notice in Mr Coopers close proximity, not only is it making me uncomfortable but the look of discomfort is plastered on many of their faces. "It's only a hobby" I sit myself up straighter. My back aches from sitting in the same hard plastic chair for 70 minutes. My hands find my leather journal, grabbing it I quickly shut it, preventing anyone else from snooping my poems.

I've always written poems. It's what I do. I have a deep passion for writing, and some day I hope to be a author, or a journalist. Once I finish at Beckham high school I'll be off to The university of Chicago. I've already been excepted, and I'll be leaving in at least two-three months.

This school year has been one of the most memorable. Today marks my boyfriend Jackson and I' three year anniversary. Many people think "whatever high school relationship" but I love Jackson, and Jackson loves me. Lately he's been acting off. And lately we've fought more than usual. The poem Mr Cooper earlier read over my shoulder was actually written about him, titled 'My Heart Depends'. Jackson doesn't know about my poetry, and I plan on keeping it like that. If I were to tell him he wouldn't be able to take me seriously. Like most of the Football jocks Jackson can't and will never respect writers craft.

Poetry is just a way I express myself. Some people sing, some dance, some have sexual relations, and some, like me write poetry. When I'm writing it feels as if the world around me dissolves, and all that's left is me a pen and my journal. I always tell people that when writing poetry, the pen has a mind of its own, whatever you need to let out, it expresses it all down the paper.

"It's by far the best poetry I've see one of my students write. Why haven't you done anything with your tasteful talent?" Mr Coopers eyebrows knit together, his pudgy arms crossing together.

"It's just a way I like to express myself, but only to myself." I clarify by placing my slim hand atop the journal.

Right before he has a chance to try and tell me otherwise the loud bell sounds, signalling schools end. "I'm afraid we'll have to postpone this discussion Mr Cooper." A light chuckle stifles from my mouth as I grab my things and rush out if literature.