Hobby

What is your hobby?  Why do you enjoy it?

This. This is my hobby.  Writing. There’s nothing that I enjoy as much as writing, except reading a good book. I’ve always made it a hobby. I started writing when I was twelve, and I spent all my free time in my room, writing stories in journals. I enjoyed it, because it was the one place I felt like I belonged. The characters in my stories were people I could relate to. The storylines were things I was interested in. And I felt that I could speak my mind without judgement.  I don’t have a way with words when it comes to speaking. But when I put those words on the page, it’s different. I know my voice, and that means something to me.

I have found multiple ways to write.. I used to only write stories. When I expanded beyond, taking workshops in nonfiction and in poetry, I found that I could express my thoughts even more. I wanted to.

I don’t understand a lot about the world, and I don’t always know how to express myself to that same world, but I can express myself in the page. I enjoy it most because, when my thoughts are written on the page, I know who I am.

It’s also just therapeutic. I can express my feelings in poetry. I can escape the world and fall into a fictional world full of characters that I love. It’s the same feeling I get when reading a book, only I get to create the words, and I love that just as much.

Inspired By

Write a poem inspired by another poem you’ve read.

Doubt

After Our Greatest Fear

 

She’ll always deny

the things that push her

forward.

She’ll forever tell

herself she’s not 

good enough.

 

Even when they praise

her name,

and tell her nice things,

she claims she doesn’t

believe a word.

 

On some level,

she knows

that they are right.

Her talent is enough.

Heart as pure as gold,

eyes kind and bright.

 

But she’s afraid to admit

this to anyone

because her heart

won’t seem pure,

and her eyes

won’t look kind.

 

But he told her 

to let her light

shine,

because he hates

the way he feels.

 

And if someone so kind

can’t see her own heart,

how can he expect

to find his own?