I am (9th Grade)

I am not who you think I am
I wonder how you fall for such foolish lies
I hear it in your voice
I see that you believe every syllable that escapes my mouth
I want you to accept me
I am not who you think I am

I pretend to be something I'm not
I feel surprised this has gone on this long
I touch my false identity
I worry I have dug this hole too deep
I cry that I will never get out
I am not who you think I am

I understand what I'm doing is wrong
I say that not doing it may be worse
I dream that I can escape
I try to climb out
I hope you can forgive me
I am not who you think I am

Vase Face

In my lifetime, I have only acquired a couple scars. All of them are memorable to me. The most tragic scar on my body is sitting right above my left brow. It is a light pink oval that only appears during the cold seasons.

My scar was given to me when I was only at the age of four. I had gone on a family trip to see the Christmas lights at the Temple. After we were done awing, my parent’s made the decision that we were going to drive home, instead of staying with family members in the area. Two hours of driving was exhausting for me after such a busy day and the instant we walked in my house, I was out on my couch. Sitting above my couch are several shelves with miscellaneous items on them, such as pictures and plants. My mother purchased a brand new, clay vase while we were on our trip. She decided the best place for her new vase would be on the highest shelf, which also happened to be the fullest shelf. She still managed to mush it in with the rest of the decorations and it sat precariously on the edge, right above my head, while I slept obliviously. My younger brother, wearing a football helmet, accidentally ran into the wall. This caused to the vase to topple off of the shelf and land right on my head.

I woke up alone in the back seat of my neighbor’s car, with the worst head ache of my life. My parents sat in the front seat and their voices sounded very agitated. I was very confused as to why I was in a car and not on my couch. I was also unsure why my head hurt so much and why it felt wet. I asked my mother and she just told me everything was fine. Knowing she was lying, I flipped on the light and took a quick glance in the mirror. I was horrified to find blood dripping down my face and starting going into hysterics. After I calmed down, I begged my mom to let me see my wound again. I am honestly not sure why I wanted to see it. She said no, I looked anyways, and once again had a fit. I blacked out during my fit. The next thing I can remember is looking into a light with a man poking my eyebrow. The rest is blackness.

Extra Credit Poem

The summer was glorious,

Romantic, and fun.

Staying out late,

I remember this one

Time we drove out

To the Lady of White.

We saw a Demon Cow,

That was more than a fright.

The circle is turning,

The time has come.

Now the days grow shorter,

And I start to run.

I must wake up early,

My freedom is strippen.

Math assignments, history tests

And papers to be written.

The work is hard,

The teachers’re scary.

Threats of failure,

Oh whips would be merry.

Sadly time controls me

And not vice-versa.

With all the stress coming up

I may get bulimia nervosa.

Me As A Writer

I would consider myself an adequate writer. In some of my writing I strive. Other times, my writing falls flat. Whether my paper is tremendous or terrible depends on several factors. These include the subject of the paper, who I am addressing, and even how clean my bedroom is. Also, several papers and people have influenced me throughout the course of my life, making me the writer I am today.

The earliest memory of writing I have is luckily a positive one. It is sitting by my fireplace on Christmas Eve, writing a message to Santa Clause. While I wrote my eager, little heart out, my father would help me with my spelling and grammar so that Santa would be, “Extra proud!” Even though I did like writing as a child, my self-esteem in my own writing was immensely low. That was until Mr. Smith’s class in fifth grade. I had been out of school for a couple weeks after having surgery. When I came back, I found that the rest of the class had started on a paper on the D.A.R.E. Program. Mr. Smith explained to me that I was a competition; the kids with the best papers were able to read it in front of a crowd consisting of our parents. Considering that I started a week later than every else, I had no intentions of winning and was shocked when I did. I was also very proud of myself.

While writing in elementary school seemed glamorous, in junior high, it was everything but. These were the years I learned how inconstant writing actually is. This was also the time the writing was the most frustrating for me. I struggled with my seventh and eighth grade teacher, Coach Wright. In his class we had to write a descriptive paragraph about our bedroom. Coach did not like my paper at all and told me I needed to go from left to right until I circled my whole room. After revising my paper, I realized that now I hated it, but grudgingly, I handed it in.

Another negative experience from his class was a poem I had written. I put a lot of heart, time and effort into this poem because the theme I was writing it on meant so much to me. It was on my first dog dying. After handing in a rough draft, Coach congratulated me on it. He said it did not need to be changed at all and that he was able to easily connect to my pain. A couple of days after, when we handed in the final draft, he gave me a C- and told me it was bland. I was so frustrated that he had completely flip-flopped on his opinions. I started to not care as much about writing because I could not understand what people wanted from my writing after that experience.

My views on writing stayed the same until last year in Mrs. Wakefield’s class. She seemed to know exactly how hard to push me and how much to reward me so that I stayed confident, yet still humble enough to know that I have so much to learn. She has helped me with my writing more than anyone else in my entire life. After she armored me with confidence, knowledge and an open mind, I ran into Coach yet again. I took his English class this last summer at the Upward Bound Program. However, this time he seemed to enjoy my papers. He even kept my persuasive essay as a model for his eighth grade class.

           
After all of these influences and experiences, both good and bad, I now feel that I still have tons to learn, but I know that I can say what I want to through my writing.