I used to sit in the back of the class and write poetry. Shakespeare inspired me to write sonnets. Ten syllables for each of the sixteen lines. Rhyme scheme abab cdcd efef gg. I was so intrigued by the way the words melded together in perfect harmony. I wrote about a sailor with the wind in his long blond locks. Brushing his hand through his thick hair wearing one of those blue trench coats and feather hats, holding a spyglass. He discovered far off worlds, islands filled with strange trees and foreign fruits. New kinds of people welcomed him wherever he went. Then, one night the sailor was caught in a terrifying tempest, with waves bigger than mountains. He was unafraid and he faced the turbulent seas. He grabbed the ship’s wheel, letting the wood give him splinters’, gripping it hard he guided the ship through the sea. He told himself that he wouldn’t die tonight. The waves rocked the almost broken boat back and forth. Before I could finish the tale, a boy came and snatched the paper I was writing on and ripped it to pieces. Laughing hard, he told me that I would never become what I wanted to be. That I was as worthless as a single grain of sand by the shore. The sailor was lost to the monster that gave him the fate he didn’t want: death. I could never be that sailor facing the storm. I faced a storm alright. I sank and sank and sank. Then with the strength of the dawn’s light I will rise.
The torrent tempest,
Blows hard against the small ship.
The ship will not sink.