Broken Bones

One hundred years ago, when I was in high school we had to turn in a poem for an assignment.  I remember the poem I wrote for two reasons.  First, I had forgotten to do the homework and was standing at my locker saying “crap!” right before English class began.  As I was standing there wondering what I was going to do, the poem descended on me.  There’s really no other word for it.  It just came to me in its entirety and I quickly wrote it on a piece of paper and hustled off to English class.  The second reason was because my English teacher, Mr._______, didn’t believe that I wrote the poem.  He thought it was good, so it obviously couldn’t have come from a teenager.  Judge for yourself and feel free to comment. 

The loneliness of having friends

seems to draw me more within

this empty shell of broken bones

that I seem to know so well.