youngadulting

I found a poem in my notebook from months ago while I was working as a waitress. It is still true:

I wish I could write poetry like I used to,
an angsty eighth grader,
who thought she had something to say.
And now
Who am I?
22. Silent.
Full of thoughts that just won’t get into formation,
and days of forgetting everything except how to take orders.
What happened to the girl who argued so fiercely with a male classmate
that females could be anything,
she shouted and disturbed the class?
Chastised, she shrank back.
And shrank back and shrank back.
And yes, listening is more important than talking,
but my strength used to be in having something to say.
Believing that it was worthwhile.
Even if it was the dumbest newspaper ever,
about a house and a town so normal
nothing happened.
I don’t know how to be bad at things.
To sit here
and let myself make words.
And know they aren’t really a poem.
They aren’t really good.
But sit with them
and love them anyway.
Because they are mine.
And they are worth saying.
I am practicing.