By Brianna Collins
(Freshman written response to Naomi Shihab Nye's, Valentine for Ernest Mann).
They gave me the question, “Where do your poems hide?” I am expected to respond in such great detail. I searched in thoughts all day. I had not been able to figure it out. I keep asking myself, “Where do my poems hide?”
I was too busy, thinking too hard. I could feel my brain pumping like a steam train pushing out the hot dense air. Breathing in and out silently but, rapidly. Writing ideas down constantly. I keep asking myself, “Where do my poems hide?”
I had some ideas, but I thought no no let me keep thinking. As I get up from my bed, I glanced around the room. Slowly walking out, a distant memory caught my eye. It was a picture of laughter. I didn’t mind it so much, and I simply walked away. I keep asking myself, “Where do my poems hide?”
I go in the kitchen, grabbing a water bottle. I keep thinking. Searching. I walk back to my room. I was now sitting on my bed. Thinking. Searching. My eyes were tired from the long day that’ll soon be behind me. I felt a sudden pressuring moment as, I watched the sunset fall down behind the horizon. The sunset was flashing colors of rose pinks and soft orange. The pressuring moment rushed to my head, so fast it was like a pin needle hitting the ground. I had the answer to the question they gave me. The answer was the past, and more so memories that hide with me. They hide with me in my cozy bed, my restful dreams, more importantly my beating heart.