My first poetry slam left me feeling empty. Burdened. As if I were holding everyone’s feelings in the palms of my hands.
My teacher read with a straight face, her voice as dry as sand.
I wouldn’t have it any other way.
The poems were anonymous but some of them I was sure would earn a kid or two a call home, sounding like a cry for help or suicide threat.
And even though we were just a high school class some kids wrote with a brushstroke of color, sure to one day be an aspiring author.
But me, my writing was beige quick and to the point without much room for one to ponder a poem or two about unrequited love that the kids called "Cute”.
But that day as I walked out I didn’t feel cute or cool or even creative. I felt a weight on my shoulders, heavier than even the textbooks in my backpack I felt burdened