A fragile soul walks into his first grade class, fearful of the outside world. This is where he says goodbye, goodbye to his parents, goodbye to his old life, and starts anew. This is where the new world opens up new possibilities, new experiences, and new learning. There is no longer a necessity for childlike wonder; this is supposed to be the place where every child goes to create a name for themselves. The name I was trying to create for myself was Tyler Vold, a unique individual who desired to write with passion and attack the intricacies of the English language head on. Mrs. Jones, my first grade teacher, unlocked the secrets of The Magic Treehouse series to my eyes, and the beauty of cursive to my hands. I did not know as a first grader
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11th grade poetry focused on Edgar Allen Poe, twisted stories of death and cruel punishment. I found Poe’s poetry to speak to me because my writing felt dead, and my emotion was restrained for so long. We had to write a poem as the first assignment in 11th grade; I conjured up a stream of five pages of abandonment, betrayal, suicide. I wrote my poem, in cursive, and crossed the whole thing out because I was unsatisfied. I rewrote it, edited it, crossed it out, rewrote it, crossed it out, tore my paper in half out of frustration, and that frustration is when I found what I was searching for. I forgot while writing my poem that there was presentation portion where all would share the poem that they wrote. When I read my poem to the class I left a stunned audience, concerned for my well-being and unaware of what was inside of me. I found it hysterical because people were showing this concern but I did not hold any contempt for myself or my friends. I had wonderful friends, a wonderful life, yet this writing was produced so easily through my mind for reasons unbeknownst to myself. I found my passion once again through poetry and my ability to manipulate the emotion of my stories to alter the mood of my
11th grade poetry focused on Edgar Allen Poe, twisted stories of death and cruel punishment. I found Poe’s poetry to speak to me because my writing felt dead, and my emotion was restrained for so long. We had to write a poem as the first assignment in 11th grade; I conjured up a stream of five pages of abandonment, betrayal, suicide. I wrote my poem, in cursive, and crossed the whole thing out because I was unsatisfied. I rewrote it, edited it, crossed it out, rewrote it, crossed it out, tore my paper in half out of frustration, and that frustration is when I found what I was searching for. I forgot while writing my poem that there was presentation portion where all would share the poem that they wrote. When I read my poem to the class I left a stunned audience, concerned for my well-being and unaware of what was inside of me. I found it hysterical because people were showing this concern but I did not hold any contempt for myself or my friends. I had wonderful friends, a wonderful life, yet this writing was produced so easily through my mind for reasons unbeknownst to myself. I found my passion once again through poetry and my ability to manipulate the emotion of my stories to alter the mood of my