“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil! —prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.” – Edgar Allen Poe, The Raven
Flipping through the pages of a well-used book the soft pages worn with wear. The dark obsidian slick feathered raven from Edgar Allen Poe was my beginning to writing poetry. Poetry was my escape that no one else could tell me that I was incorrect about how I described a house, how the foundation was a grey sand or how the shadows of people were as …show more content…
But I think that everyone should understand that creative outlets for especially teenagers are important because there are many aspects of their life that they cannot always control.
When I was a minuscule, cautious, reclusive girl with long dark chocolate hair covering half of her face, who if you weren’t looking closely could disappear in a crowd with ease. I did not have a healthy support system so I turned to self-harm and alcohol, which proceeded to get much worse when I continued into eighth grade. In eighth grade, I had this lovely, short, woman who taught English, who I thought of as a goddess. She radiated like the sun with things I did not know how to begin to understand. She was talking to us about poetry how you could give you a sense of peace within yourself that you could take whatever that was hurting you and make it so minuscule you could crush it like the dark ugly beetle it was. I remember a conversation about a poem I wrote that was cold, and usually provoked a negative reaction from people who could not see through the hidden meaning of the poem:
“You know nothing about it,
About the things that go …show more content…
“I don’t know how to express happiness because I don’t feel it or understand it.” Mrs. Johnson looked at me with a questioning expression, her eyes could have given you chills like the room dropped 20 degrees. Turning to her bookcase she grabbed an old paperback book, the page creased and torn from years of use. The smell of old cigarettes and warm vanilla with hints of almond surfaced as she flipped through the pages.
“I think you will enjoy this author,” She handed the worn-out book to me,
“I suggest you read ‘The Raven’ and continue writing how you like. I do suggest varying your writing style to fit the essays that we have coming up,” I remember this conversation the most because she was trying to tell me that my feelings were not this taboo thing that others before her tried to beat out of me. She gave me the creative freedom that I later used to have a poem published in a book. She showed me that poetry was an excellent way for someone who is depressed to have some control over a part of their life when it is increasingly harder to maintain