My finger itches for that sensation
the flick of a wrist with a pencil at hand,
and all though I would rather prefer to
write with a runny pen, I am satisfied.
The notebook is about two years old,
or maybe three, but I’m not so sure
my fingers yearn for more—
more words, more writing, more
contact with the paper.
My fingertips and wrist be alive, but
a nagging voice in the back of my head
yaps quietly afraid
Afraid of the mistakes,
Afraid of writing in the “wrong”
Afraid of finding those who read it
(even if it isn’t a journal or diary of
Because when I write with a pencil and
paper, I feel as if I have the power.
The power of being free to say what
I want to say with mistakes and
Even if my wrist hurts at the end of the day
it’s worth it.
(P.S. I took my permit test today… and I failed two points short. I may be able to take it again on Wednesday, when school starts because up again, or on Friday, and I’m sure I will do better the next time through, but to deny and say that I passed it one time would be lying to myself, so I’ve decided to enclose it here so I may remember it sometime soon.)