Writing Poetry on the Bus

A pencil scribbled furiously on a piece of paper. It paused now and then as bumps in the road made it hard to write, until at last it was out. Out of her head and onto paper. Cayla examined what she had written.

A rose, a lonely rose
That thinks as it grows
And ponders the world
As its leaf is curled

It will sit and wait
For a rose’s fate
On the dawn of that day
All its petals will fade away

Cayla looked up at the rest of the sixth graders on the bus. The noise that her mind had deadened now crashed upon her like waves on the ocean shore. Someone was reading the poem she had just written. “Write something about Adam,” her classmate suggested. Cayla looked at the boy with headphones on. Her pencil poised above the paper for a moment before she began to scribble.

A boy named Adam
Rocks to the walkman
Shaking his head every which way
If you do not know him
You’d think he’s crazy.

They laughed as they read it. Cayla wrinkled her nose. It was not nearly as good as the poem she had first written. A poem that she would remember even as the memory of it’s writing faded.

The End

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