Soon an itch began to scratch
in a spot of my soul out of my reach.
I was curious though and took the chance.
Writing creatively for a credit of three
to see if those swirls and squiggles
I use to write before I knew how
could be a sign that I was meant to be a writer.
But am I a good writer?
Once, I couldn’t find the meaning of a word
in the slew of memorizations in my mind
in front of a published girl I knew.
“and you want to be a writer?”
She said laughing.
Maybe she is right,
or maybe she isn’t.
I explain to the teacher my “condition.”
(like it’s so serious. But isn’t it?)
Despite my mother’s offers,
I refuse to let anyone else
edit my work
save for the teacher.
Can’t stop her and I didn’t want to.
I wanted to see if I am a good writer.
I wasn’t sure until I saw the grade
for my short story. She loved it. More-so the
end, but took ten points off
for all the usual mistakes I make.
I couldn’t believe it. Yes!
Years of C’s and B’s
and I got an A minus.
Maybe it is not so foolish
to believe that I could do this,
be a writer after all.
For no matter how often I think it foolish
the writing itch will always need to be scratched
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