This is just a little something I've been working on while walking across campus. Poetry is definitely not my area of expertise--I much prefer literary analyses--, but i thought I'd give it a shot. As a twelve-year-old, I would write moping, depressing poetry that was just terrible. I threw it in the recycling as soon as I found it because it wasn't even worth the nostalgia. This is a little less clueless-twelve-year-old-esque.
A Flittering Thing
An idea is a flittering thing
Still warm as it claws against the leaden curve
Of its newfound form and newly hated shape,
Bent to fit a foreign shackle
And too far from its native conception to offer up its voice,
But only more determined than before,
Scratched into being
By the dripping edge of the pen
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