This was part of an eight-part poem I wrote during my senior year. I found it in my old english folder and laughed.
Lastly, a Pensive Writer joined the crowd.
This one was different, hardly voicing aloud.
She was plain and slightly awkward,
Most found her random knowledge absurd.
Her hair was of a blondish tone;
She spoke often in monotone.
She often saw herself quite aloof,
Her strange gifts were signs of proof.
Taking comfort in music, movies and books,
Boys hardly ever cared for her average looks.
She was clever and clearly witty
With hidden sea foam eyes that made her pretty.
Converse and Vans for her very flat feet,
Her room and such places were never neat ––
Though most thought she was obsessive compulsive.
She found public displays of affection repulsive!
Most often she was lost in a dream.
And most of those ended ripped at the seam.
She cared not for the music of band,
but rather for the new pen in her hand.
Still trying to find out whom she would become,
She knew she would never succumb
To a life that was mediocre ––
In her head she was always a joker.
A pessimist filled with an optimistic sunshine,
She hoped her future was bright and divine.
There you have it, you see. Rhyming is the way to be.
