The instructor said,
Go home and write
a page tonight.
And let that page come out of you---
Then, it will be true.
I wonder if it's that simple?
I am thirteen, white, born in Boca Raton
I lived there, then Deerfield,
then back to Boca, where I will attend school.
I am the only student in my class who prefers to work alone.
Although I could never know,
I haven’t learned the seemingly simple lives of my peers.
Their after school routine is a mystery to me.
When the final bell rings, I have been sent free
from my forever lasting prison sentence, where all the work was complete.
I sit atop the hill, waiting for a ride
I speak to my friends, before they depart
I see a car that will drive me home.
Soon enough, we’re on the road
Pulling in the driveway, walking up the stairs.
I unlock the door, and walk to my room
Where I sit on the floor, with my laptop on my lap
Speak to my friends, and play games with them.
It’s not easy to know what self is to you or me
at thirteen, my age. I don’t know myself.
I am the collection of memories and thoughts, where opinions will bloom.
I am the result of my actions, and others who have an effect on me.
I see me: see me, see you—we two—you, me, I see my place on this page.
(But I don’t see me.) Me—who?
I like to sleep, think, talk, and to distract myself,
With the problems of my friends, and try to find solutions.
I like receiving money for gifts,
Most do.
I guess that doesn’t set me apart from you.
My page will be me, what sets me apart from others.
So will my page even exist?
Being me, it won’t be real.
But if it’s me,
It will be you as well,
A compilation of those who I know.
I am not different,
I suppose that’s myself.
Perhaps you don’t want to be apart of me,
The same goes to you.
But that could only be true,
if you let me impact you.
I guess you take from me,
What I take from you
I suppose that’s how the world works.
We live in a society
This is my page for English B.