Imagery, the details, always the details'. Metaphors used wisely add a touch of texture'. I listen and to the way my English teacher drapes herself over the terms of language and cant help but wonder'Sound devices, alliteration, rhyme, simile, assonance. The list goes on. I take out a pencil. A sheet of clean paper. And I write. I use my five senses, I let you touch what I feel, I perfect the rhythm, the beat, and each error in punctuation. Reread, reread, edit, edit' and turn it in. Perfect. A, of course, not a hundred percent for my spacing was off, no biggie, 'On the rode to be a great author!' the comment reads. Perfect.

I know how to write, to appeal to your senses, but somehow, it all seems wrong. As if once I have added the questioning, the longing the ability to hide a message in a short piece of writing, all of its meaning is lost. I love the details, but the ones that every one notices, the ones you see every day, and somehow forget. Use verbal imagery! They say. Pore out your heart! And I look around, at my fellow students, straining against the paper, fitting in the syllables, writing to perfection, until all soul is lost. Huh.

I see the beauty in the word. 'A cut rose, no longer to live again.' I understand its appeal. But doesn't every one see it wilt? Does it need to be beautified, until it is no longer a plant, but the resemblance of all hard factors in life? For once could we just speak it how we see it?

I myself love to write, yet find a sense of dread in my English class. I write what is asked for, no more no less. Glancing down at the crisp paper fresh from the printer, I don't see my heart somehow transformed into ink, just a list of instructions fulfilled, another grade, and to come, another pointless assignment or exercise.

So, late at night, when as my English teacher would love for me to write, when the night refuses my biding, and I lay tired, aching for rest, I step out of my room, settle down at the table and just speak. After ten minutes or a couple hours, I reread what I have written. I relish in the misspellings, the mismatched punctuation, and its frank reflection of my mind. It holds no secret meaning, for that isn't how I see life. Does any body look at a rose and see pain and sorrow? Any body lay in bed composing poetry of the dark sleepless nights of life? Maybe it's just me.

Inevitably, what I have written finds its way to the trash. From past experience, I have found that no one likes to read another's thoughts. Often they are so close to their own, that it seems to freak them out. To see it written, the good and the bad. Everything no one is supposed to acknowledge. The true imperfections of life. I have found that I write two of everything. One for me, and one for them. The truth, and what every one wants to hear. Bad and good, passing or failing grade. The choice is obvious. So I take my poem, my essay my random thoughts, and I revise revise revise, till there is nothing left of any importance. Turn it in and get a good grade.

This lately, has seemed a sort of cowardice to me. Am I really that insecure, that shy, to not let people see what I really mean? With out the ribbons and bows and perfect topics sentences? But this is how I write now, for the enjoyment of others. After failing 2 or 3 writing assignments, I gave up on the originality, and full filled sense of heart my teacher spoke of. No longer am I proud of the beautiful lies that I turn in to be judged,

As you read this, perhaps you are astonished at my take on writing. Maybe you know exactly what I feel. But as to be expected, this is the second copy. This is revised, revised.
Reread, reread. Edited, edited. All originality searched for and properly disposed of Locked away in my heart where people tell me it is supposed to stay. It is perfection.