Graduation Poem
May 15th, 2016
When I was a young girl,
at the naive age of only fourteen,
I experienced the beginning of a four year expedition
that would eventually allow me to grow into something
more than ordinary.
Looking back now,
as I stand before the graduating class of 2016
and see all of the things we’ve overcome and experienced,
the nerves that caused my teeth to rattle like the dried autumn leaves
littering my driveway
seem foolish and childish,
and the fear that coursed through my veins
unnecessary and careless.
Fresh from three years of sun-lit afternoons spent
racing around gravel tracks and
Friday nights wandering through the deserted mall,
those moments hadn’t seemed to prepare me for the
beginning of growing up
nor the myriad of ways in which
my life would shift and twist,
becoming a pathway convoluted and untrodden.
Even now,
after countless late nights spent creating
drawings composed of endless thoughts and beliefs
and frosted Friday night football games, wishing I’d brought more than just
a cross country hoodie for warmth,
I can remember the way my knees and finger tips quaked,
the way goosebumps blossomed on my August-stained skin
the first time my feet pitter-pattered on these glitter dusted floors.
I remember how I could still taste the remnants of
salt on my lips from beach excursions and last spring’s track meets,
pieces of a history swiftly coming to its conclusion.
Nervous and trembling,
I entered wearing Expo-marker covered Converse and had
armed myself with God knows how many pens and writing utensils.
Walking in,
my mind began to whirl and my heart pulsate
with all the cliche nightmares I’d seen unfold in high school movies,
and I was absolutely terrified of condescending seniors and foreign teachers.
But a piece of me,
some sliver of bravery hiding between quivering hands and
twittering toes,
was determined that this next journey
would allow me to be more than just another muted face
treading water alongside a sea of overlapping entities.
I wanted that spark,
the one that lay kindled against my wrapped ribs,
the one that fueled my need to create and devour poetry,
to engulf my tongue and lips with flickering flames.
You see,
before I came here,
back when I was just that wee girl of only fourteen,
I feared change and couldn’t stomach the possibility
of ever being anything less than exemplary.
I questioned every word that poured from my unsure mouth
and hid behind the lines I stitched to
crinkled pages and into cracked notebooks.
I believed that the only way I could articulate the
whirling thoughts tumbling about in my wind tunnel mind
without bumbling and stumbling over half-formed words
and bramble-crusted sentences
was to trace them between blue-hued lines
over and over again
until they were absolutely perfect.
Even today,
I create pathways and outlines
to help me find my way through a myriad of ideas
burbling from my quick-silver tongue.
But back then,
I feared public speaking,
or maybe I just feared the possibility of being heard and
that vulnerability that comes from being bold enough to absolutely anything.
I couldn’t fathom that one day,
poems such as these would be nationally esteemed,
and I never would have believed it if you’d told me that
the words I’d cut out and pieced back together again like literary puzzles
would ever be seen by something other than my burnished eyes.
God knows how many nights were spent creating instead of sleeping,
listening to the whispers of the willow tree outside my window,
wondering if I could ever be as outstanding as Dickens or Angelou,
if my name would one day become synonymous with Collins or even Cummings.
How badly I wanted to be
somebody worth remembering.
When you’re only fourteen,
every change is a glacier carving new valleys into your sense of reality
and every shift in your surroundings becomes a possible catastrophe.
Because of my fear of change and new beginnings,
I clung to middle school friends who’d
climbed bristling trees and raced through twilight streets with me.
High school unfolded,
and it was a completely new monstrosity of vulnerability and insecurity.
Awkward and unsure,
armed with notebooks overflowing with unfinished poetry and
half-concocted stories,
I began to see
that there is more to be seen and felt
when you actually allow yourself to step outside of the
everyday, mundane reality of a past
that no longer exists.
If I’d known then what I know now,
if I knew that I would fall into a love so deep and unending
that I sometimes couldn’t breathe from its weight,
that it would eventually fade to transparent hues of forgotten blacks and grays,
inspiring countless Scholastic poems,
if I had known how easy it can be to breathe
despite capsizing lungs and burning legs struggling to carry you across
a finish line which seems to be miles away,
knowing a sea of people line the curved fence around the track
yelling and cheering,
believing in every step I took and fought for,
if I had known what I know today,
then maybe the anxiety and fear
lacing its way through taut muscles and shivering skin
wouldn’t have prevented me from
branching out and trying new things.
If I had known
the beauty of seeing outstanding friends find themselves
between the pages of forgotten novels and on ink-stained canvases,
or the magic in Friday nights spent in the vinyl booths at Moe’s,
eating multitudes of chips and discussing politics,
or the wonder in hearing new people’s stories,
getting lost in the pathways and trails of their history,
I would have marched into these hallways,
fearless and excited,
ready to see and be anything and everything.
When I was a that pre-teen being,
wracked with trepidation and insecurity,
all I could think of was becoming something celestial,
a person worth remembering,
someone whose name would be synonymous with the greats.
And now,
as I present what could very well be
the last things I ever say
to the people who have challenged and changed me,
aiding me in becoming who I am today,
all I can say is thank you.
Maybe these molted metaphors and
disorganized stanzas are the only things you’ve ever heard me speak
or maybe they are yet another poem that I have spammed you with,
but I hope you can see
that they are my way of saying
thank you for fear years of memories,
for four years spent loving and living,
of racing and speaking,
of writing and creating.
Countless memories and lessons have been instilled in me
and taped to the lining of my tobacco tin heart
and I will cherish them for as long as
I can pen poetry to empty pages.
And though I have learned
textbooks worth of information and interesting facts,
a myriad of equations and explanations to the physical laws of our world,
I think the one thing
that I will always remember from my four years as a wildcat
is that
no one here
has ever been anything other than exemplary and wonderfully outstanding.
May 15th, 2016
When I was a young girl,
at the naive age of only fourteen,
I experienced the beginning of a four year expedition
that would eventually allow me to grow into something
more than ordinary.
Looking back now,
as I stand before the graduating class of 2016
and see all of the things we’ve overcome and experienced,
the nerves that caused my teeth to rattle like the dried autumn leaves
littering my driveway
seem foolish and childish,
and the fear that coursed through my veins
unnecessary and careless.
Fresh from three years of sun-lit afternoons spent
racing around gravel tracks and
Friday nights wandering through the deserted mall,
those moments hadn’t seemed to prepare me for the
beginning of growing up
nor the myriad of ways in which
my life would shift and twist,
becoming a pathway convoluted and untrodden.
Even now,
after countless late nights spent creating
drawings composed of endless thoughts and beliefs
and frosted Friday night football games, wishing I’d brought more than just
a cross country hoodie for warmth,
I can remember the way my knees and finger tips quaked,
the way goosebumps blossomed on my August-stained skin
the first time my feet pitter-pattered on these glitter dusted floors.
I remember how I could still taste the remnants of
salt on my lips from beach excursions and last spring’s track meets,
pieces of a history swiftly coming to its conclusion.
Nervous and trembling,
I entered wearing Expo-marker covered Converse and had
armed myself with God knows how many pens and writing utensils.
Walking in,
my mind began to whirl and my heart pulsate
with all the cliche nightmares I’d seen unfold in high school movies,
and I was absolutely terrified of condescending seniors and foreign teachers.
But a piece of me,
some sliver of bravery hiding between quivering hands and
twittering toes,
was determined that this next journey
would allow me to be more than just another muted face
treading water alongside a sea of overlapping entities.
I wanted that spark,
the one that lay kindled against my wrapped ribs,
the one that fueled my need to create and devour poetry,
to engulf my tongue and lips with flickering flames.
You see,
before I came here,
back when I was just that wee girl of only fourteen,
I feared change and couldn’t stomach the possibility
of ever being anything less than exemplary.
I questioned every word that poured from my unsure mouth
and hid behind the lines I stitched to
crinkled pages and into cracked notebooks.
I believed that the only way I could articulate the
whirling thoughts tumbling about in my wind tunnel mind
without bumbling and stumbling over half-formed words
and bramble-crusted sentences
was to trace them between blue-hued lines
over and over again
until they were absolutely perfect.
Even today,
I create pathways and outlines
to help me find my way through a myriad of ideas
burbling from my quick-silver tongue.
But back then,
I feared public speaking,
or maybe I just feared the possibility of being heard and
that vulnerability that comes from being bold enough to absolutely anything.
I couldn’t fathom that one day,
poems such as these would be nationally esteemed,
and I never would have believed it if you’d told me that
the words I’d cut out and pieced back together again like literary puzzles
would ever be seen by something other than my burnished eyes.
God knows how many nights were spent creating instead of sleeping,
listening to the whispers of the willow tree outside my window,
wondering if I could ever be as outstanding as Dickens or Angelou,
if my name would one day become synonymous with Collins or even Cummings.
How badly I wanted to be
somebody worth remembering.
When you’re only fourteen,
every change is a glacier carving new valleys into your sense of reality
and every shift in your surroundings becomes a possible catastrophe.
Because of my fear of change and new beginnings,
I clung to middle school friends who’d
climbed bristling trees and raced through twilight streets with me.
High school unfolded,
and it was a completely new monstrosity of vulnerability and insecurity.
Awkward and unsure,
armed with notebooks overflowing with unfinished poetry and
half-concocted stories,
I began to see
that there is more to be seen and felt
when you actually allow yourself to step outside of the
everyday, mundane reality of a past
that no longer exists.
If I’d known then what I know now,
if I knew that I would fall into a love so deep and unending
that I sometimes couldn’t breathe from its weight,
that it would eventually fade to transparent hues of forgotten blacks and grays,
inspiring countless Scholastic poems,
if I had known how easy it can be to breathe
despite capsizing lungs and burning legs struggling to carry you across
a finish line which seems to be miles away,
knowing a sea of people line the curved fence around the track
yelling and cheering,
believing in every step I took and fought for,
if I had known what I know today,
then maybe the anxiety and fear
lacing its way through taut muscles and shivering skin
wouldn’t have prevented me from
branching out and trying new things.
If I had known
the beauty of seeing outstanding friends find themselves
between the pages of forgotten novels and on ink-stained canvases,
or the magic in Friday nights spent in the vinyl booths at Moe’s,
eating multitudes of chips and discussing politics,
or the wonder in hearing new people’s stories,
getting lost in the pathways and trails of their history,
I would have marched into these hallways,
fearless and excited,
ready to see and be anything and everything.
When I was a that pre-teen being,
wracked with trepidation and insecurity,
all I could think of was becoming something celestial,
a person worth remembering,
someone whose name would be synonymous with the greats.
And now,
as I present what could very well be
the last things I ever say
to the people who have challenged and changed me,
aiding me in becoming who I am today,
all I can say is thank you.
Maybe these molted metaphors and
disorganized stanzas are the only things you’ve ever heard me speak
or maybe they are yet another poem that I have spammed you with,
but I hope you can see
that they are my way of saying
thank you for fear years of memories,
for four years spent loving and living,
of racing and speaking,
of writing and creating.
Countless memories and lessons have been instilled in me
and taped to the lining of my tobacco tin heart
and I will cherish them for as long as
I can pen poetry to empty pages.
And though I have learned
textbooks worth of information and interesting facts,
a myriad of equations and explanations to the physical laws of our world,
I think the one thing
that I will always remember from my four years as a wildcat
is that
no one here
has ever been anything other than exemplary and wonderfully outstanding.