In elementary school, I loved to write. My teachers provided a series of poetry prompts; I picked up my #2 pencil and filled pages with large and beautiful new words, stringing them together to create verses that hung on the wall for my slightly biased parents to appreciate.

My free time was dedicated to creating long (and often Disney-related) plays, sure to be memorized and performed at my next birthday party. Words quickly became the love of my young life.

I arrived at Washington Middle School a confident 11-year-old in blue Tevas, sure of my lifelong goal: to become a grand and dignified author, and sell my first book at the ripe age of 12. I salvaged every creative writing prompt I could find in my language arts class and never hesitated to read my poetry in front of the class. Unfortunately, without support, my zeal began to fade.

As I grew, words led to studying that led to vocab tests. The wild adventure stories on my computer turned to research papers and the omnipresent essays. Writing became a hassle as I carelessly scribbled down every undeveloped thesis and weak topic sentence, typing up my halfhearted paragraphs at midnight on the Sundays before large papers were due. As long as my grades stayed high, I disregarded my former passion.

I watch my most literate friends construct their assignments in the library at break. Admittedly, this is usually because I’m sitting next to them, doing the same thing. And really, who can blame us? Words now remind us of sleep deprivation and impossibly long history questions. No wonder it’s difficult to get inspired.

This year, I joined a program called Youth Speaks in which young writers of Seattle develop their writing skills and host all sorts of poetry events, focusing on spoken word. This group has rediscovered the root of writing. Instead of using words only for analyzing novels and outlining past centuries, teenagers can find their voices through writing.

Walking into my first Youth Speaks poetry slam, I was floored. My eyes skimmed rows of students of all sizes, races, and ideals. Electricity filled the room, and it hit me how rare it was to see a group of teenagers so excited about poetry.

Each author filled the entire building with his or her presence, voice, and story. Some poems were quiet, while others ricocheted off the walls. Many induced waves of laughter, while others jutted into the crowd, filling eyes and sending warm tears down cheeks. The voices, utterly vulnerable, identified the speakers through a few words on crumpled sheets of paper.

We spend years learning how to speak and years learning how to write. We enhance our vocabulary every day at school; we learn grammar from chiding grandparents who lovingly remind us that the correct phrase is “Timmy and I.” So why not take advantage of it?

School can take the fun out of almost anything, but often people forget that writing really has nothing to do with boring classes, AP US assignments, and tedious SAT prompts. There is no correct way to write poetry; it is difficult to come up with specific rules or a certain formula, no matter how vague (psha, Jane Schaffer).

Yes, years of dreary schoolwork have stripped writing of its glamour. It takes effort to look past the countless essays and tiresome timed writes. Clicking on Word on a day free from homework can seem a chore when the brightly flashing TV sits in the next room. Somehow, writing has become the broccoli of the teen world, when really it is quite the treat.

Poetry has nothing to do with receiving A’s or pleasing teachers. In reality, it serves as therapy, entertainment, and identity. Some sing their words, some speak them, and some slam them. Whatever method chosen, poetry is a way to get out there and give a piece of oneself to the world.

I don’t think I’ll be an author when I grow up, and my 12-year-old deadline has come and gone, but when I get inspired or hurt or just plain bored, I know that I can pick up a pen, touch it to a piece of paper, and create a little more of myself.