Blank Verse
My first two years of high school were as turbulent as a washing machine on spin cycle. Family dysfunction, the death of my grandfather, and a surge of hormones sent me spiraling out of control. I skipped out of school, ran with a tough crowd, got into mischief, and challenged anyone in authority. In my junior year, I took a creative writing class. Mr. Schriener, my teacher, urged me to release my teenage angst through blank verse poetry. Finding it terribly cathartic, I filled spiral notebooks with poems about the girl I had been and the woman I hoped to become. I wrote about the pressing issues in my tiny world: The vapidity of the popular clique, my first love, my unrequited desire for expensive designer jeans, my stepfather's frequent forays into adultery, battles with my mother, the uncertainty of my future. Mr. Schriener read some of my poems and suggested I submit them to magazines. With a belly full of nerves and doubt, I sent three emotion-filled, blank verse