I could probably write until my fingers fall off, I’ve realized. Except, not in Arial font. It’s like an off-brand version of Times New Roman and it makes me cringe just to spell out a word in it. But, besides that. I could write until the light in my eyes gives in. Until the sun rises, dances across the sky, and drops back down into it’s cloudy bedding. Until summer whittles into the smell of fresh pencils and late August; until pep rally noise starts to blare; until I’ve run out of pencils and pens and have to ask whoever’s sitting next to me in third period:

“Please?”

Sometimes I write until it doesn’t make sense anymore. Just words clogged with emotions, metaphors extended so far that they burst into the crumbs that litter my kitchen. I was sitting in my kitchen, actually, last night, and writing. I was writing about coffee and maybe angels or something morbid like that. I filled up the last blank pages of an old biology notebook that I despised. As a sort of tree hugger, I should hate myself for what some would consider a blatant waste of paper. But, I have to write.

Whatever it is that people must do to let out all the steam in their head, they’ll do it. Me? Well, we’ve just been through this: I’ve got to write. And this is nothing new. It all started when I was younger and had a much smaller mouth. This was long before I realized how being blunt to certain people is sometimes a very good thing and, always, cathartic. I remember, rather clearly, always writing things down on paper or in emails and showing/sending them to my mom––instead of actually speaking to her. This was always when I felt too embarrassed or nervous to say what I wanted to out loud.

Many people, teens especially, experience this phenomenon. In a society that has constantly undervalued and underestimated the opinions of youth, it can be hard to let one’s voice grow louder than the thousands of people imploring you to “SHH!!!”. Writing–– whether it be a story, a poem, or a song–– provides a zone free from judgment for young adults. A piece of paper and a pen are nothing if not a destination for acceptance and release; a kingdom comprised of your very own thoughts and feelings. 

When you shame and punish teens for experiencing interest in spoken word or make fun of them for forming a band and yelling angsty lyrics into a microphone, you’re suggesting that you’d rather them bottle up every emotion they have. This bottling of emotions leads to the epidemic in depression experienced by this generation. Depression’s plague upon our modern society has become increasingly prominent, and it’s victims are usually adolescents. In fact, the World Health Organization reports that, “depression is the predominant cause of illness and disability for both boys and girls aged 10 to 19 years”. Being hushed and disregarded is one of the many factors that contributes to this rise in depression.

All of this goes to show that you can’t blame a teen for writing angry poetry anymore than you can blame a baby for crying. You’ve got to let it out someway. That’s how I see it. And even though nowadays I’m pretty fearless when it comes to letting people know what’s on my mind, sometimes writing a couple of sentences in a notebook, on a napkin, across my hand, on whatever, gives me a sense of release. And, gosh, it’s like, you’ll never know what real closure feels like until your loopy handwriting is sprawled across twenty pages of paper and you cry it out for a while.

(Or a couple of hours).