9th Grade Study Skills
During my freshman year in high school I was required to take a study skills class. This class as I can remember it was more of a class to get help with homework. I had two teachers, Ms. Harrington and Ms. Griffin. Both teachers had an impact on me as a student. They knew my family background and that meant that when I came to class they could tell if something was bothering me. Often times my teacher took me to the hallway just to talk to me about my day and give me a much needed hug. They knew my struggles.
Ms. Harrington noticed my need to write poetry because I used this class to write poems that often times I would share with my teachers. She saw how important these poems were to me and gave me a pink flowered journal to write them in. I wrote poems in the journal about everything and sometimes nothing. It became my diary; a diary that I shared. I would only write polished pieces in this journal. Often times I started my poems as a letter on a piece of lined notebook paper. I always left off the “Dear Johnny” part of the letter which made me feel more comfortable to write whatever thoughts I felt like writing. It reminded me that I wasn’t going to actually give the letter to this person in whom I was secretly writing about.
This poem "Battle Cry", started out as a letter to my mother. I wrote to her about my frustrations with the way I felt she had been treating me. After I wrote the letter I went through and found my key points that I felt needed to be made and I pulled them out onto a separate piece of paper. Then I made them seem choppy and poetic. When I completed the poem I read it to my mom the next time we met. I sat on her Kitchen counter while she stood in front of me listening to my poem that wrote about our conflict or what seemed to me as a battle. Sometimes when I did this my mother would cry and other times she would discuss it with me. This always made me feel better.
At this point in my writing career I began to realize that the writing helped me to communicate with people I loved. I found a way to make my voice heard even if it was a negative thought. My poetry kept my otherwise troubled relationships going.
Another poem I wrote was more about nothing than something. its titled "Ym Ecalp" I began this poem by just sitting in my bedroom making observations of my surroundings. I don’t know what inspired me to write this poem other than the joy I found in writing.
This poem was written to be a description of my bedroom or my place. I remember sitting in the middle of my room thinking about all the different things I had sitting around me. I included some of those things as well as some of the things I used my place for such as sleeping, looking in the mirror and fixing my hair. Not only did I use my writing abilities for my emotions but for fun too.
Ms. Harrington noticed my need to write poetry because I used this class to write poems that often times I would share with my teachers. She saw how important these poems were to me and gave me a pink flowered journal to write them in. I wrote poems in the journal about everything and sometimes nothing. It became my diary; a diary that I shared. I would only write polished pieces in this journal. Often times I started my poems as a letter on a piece of lined notebook paper. I always left off the “Dear Johnny” part of the letter which made me feel more comfortable to write whatever thoughts I felt like writing. It reminded me that I wasn’t going to actually give the letter to this person in whom I was secretly writing about.
This poem "Battle Cry", started out as a letter to my mother. I wrote to her about my frustrations with the way I felt she had been treating me. After I wrote the letter I went through and found my key points that I felt needed to be made and I pulled them out onto a separate piece of paper. Then I made them seem choppy and poetic. When I completed the poem I read it to my mom the next time we met. I sat on her Kitchen counter while she stood in front of me listening to my poem that wrote about our conflict or what seemed to me as a battle. Sometimes when I did this my mother would cry and other times she would discuss it with me. This always made me feel better.
At this point in my writing career I began to realize that the writing helped me to communicate with people I loved. I found a way to make my voice heard even if it was a negative thought. My poetry kept my otherwise troubled relationships going.
Another poem I wrote was more about nothing than something. its titled "Ym Ecalp" I began this poem by just sitting in my bedroom making observations of my surroundings. I don’t know what inspired me to write this poem other than the joy I found in writing.
This poem was written to be a description of my bedroom or my place. I remember sitting in the middle of my room thinking about all the different things I had sitting around me. I included some of those things as well as some of the things I used my place for such as sleeping, looking in the mirror and fixing my hair. Not only did I use my writing abilities for my emotions but for fun too.
Battle cry
Who said “I didn’t do it?”
Who said “I didn’t do it?”
How?
I can’t see
How.
Why?
Why all the lies?
My ears are bleeding!
When was I seen last?
When did your hate become mine?
Where are you?
I am here.
Where can I start?
What’s your name?
“I didn’t do it.”
Imagine that…
Ym Ecalp
The narrow spot.
I leaned, I fell;
I reached for gold.
I stood and saw,
A pumpkin, inside out?
The bright clown, with morbid roses?
The precious moments with fire?
A sleeping beauty, in green,
Attracted to clouds.
I stood and felt;
The ringlets twist,
The shivers trail,
My eyes wobble.
Who said “I didn’t do it?”
Who said “I didn’t do it?”
How?
I can’t see
How.
Why?
Why all the lies?
My ears are bleeding!
When was I seen last?
When did your hate become mine?
Where are you?
I am here.
Where can I start?
What’s your name?
“I didn’t do it.”
Imagine that…
Ym Ecalp
The narrow spot.
I leaned, I fell;
I reached for gold.
I stood and saw,
A pumpkin, inside out?
The bright clown, with morbid roses?
The precious moments with fire?
A sleeping beauty, in green,
Attracted to clouds.
I stood and felt;
The ringlets twist,
The shivers trail,
My eyes wobble.
