Creativity in School

Being in college has opened my eyes to a whole new world as I strive to move towards a good career and earn a living while doing what I love. Professors are eager to help us students understand our own style, create our own opinions about different authors and writing, and edit our writing while we develop our language and morph into honorable writers.

On top of my writing, I’ve began drawing (as you may have seen in previous posts), a skill I honestly did not know I had. Of course I’ve taken art classes in elementary through high school, but in that time I was unable to find a passion for it. This made me wonder, why was I unable to find love in something that now favorably takes up so much of my time?

And then I thought about how it was not until my Sophomore year of college that I finally decided to change my major to English. Writing, being a form of art (at least in my eyes), is something I am very passionate about but could not come to love it until I was out of high school and well on my way as a college student.

What I’ve determined is that while schools encourage students to be creative and write, draw, play music, sing and perform as they please, they still hold strong guidelines as a thin strip for students to walk on. I’ve taken many art classes over the years but was told my drawing and other pieces were not well done. But why? That’s how I envisioned it. Is it because my lines are not dark enough for the teacher’s pleasure? Is it because I didn’t shade correctly? Is it because my lines aren’t straight enough and the curvy lines not curvy enough?

Then I think back to English classes when I was asked to write on a topic of my choosing. Let’s say a poem. Students would get points off for not following the proper syllables, line length, or meter, a very good reason for point deductions, however holding points on an assignment because the teacher did not like the topic or word choice is disheartening.

I love being creative in many of it’s forms, but having someone tell you your assignment is not good is what pulled me away from taking part in it outside of school.

As I began college, and the main focus moved from following a certain style to creating our own, is what reopened the doors to the world of writing. I was so used to hearing what I’ve written is not correct, when in reality there is no reason why it wouldn’t be. Before college I was lost and had no idea who I was a writer. The boundaries created to enclose students into writing as one another, to where there is almost no diversity, is what held a form grasp on me, which is why I believe schools need to have a more open and free flowing creative outlet for students to explore the many possibilities of art.

The opportunity to express yourself is a very important aspect of young lives as we come to discover who we are. I would have never come to understand my love of writing if I did not allow myself to explore the world of creative writing in college. Secretly I had a burning passion for it, but I worked hard to keep it from bubbling over because I never saw myself as a good writer.

Freedom to write as you please is beautiful. Freedom to draw, design, paint, create, and explore as you please is beautiful. And this is something schools and parents should focus on as their kids grow.

Learn to love art and you will learn so much about yourself.

Replaced With New Bricks

The storm that came into her house

Left her cold and shivering.

She lives in a house of cards

That the wind blew down;

A crumbled building

Never given a second chance.


But she found a way to survive.

She slowly began to rebuild,

Pushing away the memories of you,

The one who helped her build this home

But then turned around,

Blowing in as a storm

And left her soaking.


But soon she won’t remember you.

You’ll be a postcard,

Crumbled and faded,

Buried in a trunk taking shelter

Among the other forgotten clutter

That once built up this home,

Now replaced with a brick,

Building her house stronger.

Moving On (a poem)

There are things you could have done better.

You could have passed math in the eighth grade,

You could have been a better lover,

You could have been a better son to your mother,

You could have forgiven your father,

But you’ll learn to move on.


Your heart still beats,

Blood flows through your veins,

Mind shifts the speed of swiftly moving water.

Your faults are nothing compared to your triumphs.

Keep moving forward and be brave,

Be strong and be bold,

Stand tall even with the weight of the world pushing you down.

Never let go.

Do You Remember Me? (a poem)

Do you remember me?

I’m the tea you left on the counter,

I’m the book you loved in high school,

I’m the friend you used to meet after class

When you felt like dying and needed a smoke,

I’m the man sitting on the corner,

Hands shaking and asking for change,

I’m the memory you hid away

To forget you’re not perfect,

I’m the old record you shoved away

When someone told you your music was crap,

I’m the time you forgot to say “I’m sorry”

When the pain was too much to take,

I’m the notebook you left under your bed,

A dry sea where life used to grow.

Do you remember me?

Do you want anything to do with me now?

Tied Tight (a poem)

A dark shadow man

In a grey business suit

Followed me home

After I roamed through the streets.


He kept his distance

Left hand clutching a brief case

While the other clenched in a fist

With stillness upon his face.


He spoke no words,

Gave no emotion,

But he kept his distance

With eyes looking straight.


It wasn’t until we reached my street

That he disappeared;

His presence dispersed as a mist

Of cool damp air.


I’ve seen this man since then,

He waits for me at the street corner,

Wearing the same suit

And carrying the same case.


He follows me

And I once heard him whisper

The sullen sound

Of my enviable fate.


I too will be a shadow man

Wearing a grey business suit,

As I move through my days

Without emotion and without light.


For when I grow older

I will be nothing but a worker,

Earning my way through life

Quiet and tied tight.

Radiant (a poem)

You can’t say you know her

If you have only used your eyes,

For her radiant beauty is nothing

Compared to what she hides.


If you ever get the chance,

Soak into her skin,

But never get too close

To the darkness she holds within.


Her spine is cracked and damaged,

Fingers weak and strained,

Blood dripping from the cuts

Soaking the flourished plain.


She may looks like a valley,

Complete, beautiful, lush.

But inside she different;

She’s worn down, yet tough.

Rise in Love (a poem)

Rise in love,

The dreamer said,

Her head above the clouds

While body in bed.


Her mind wanders,

Flowing through space,

A world where she’s destined

A positive fate.


She dreams of love,

But not from a man,

But between all people

On the warm prosperous land.


For hate has shaken

And beat her down

To where she feel lonely

When all is around.


Bombs explode,

Guns fire off,

Knives inflict wounds

As spirits drop.


She hides under her blanket

As the madness erupts,

But never a tear

When her mind rises up.