Annabelle crushed on the
boy who sat in front of her in humanities
class. She loved the way his
dark, brown hair curled and
even teased the back of his neck.
Friends whispered he was cute.
Girls passed notes just to smile at him.
Her pencil taps paused whenever he laughed.
Ink hearts flirted in her notebook margins.
Just once, she wanted him to notice.
Knees bouncing beneath her desk,
lectures felt longer when he wasn’t near.
Maybe tomorrow, she told herself.
Nervous dreams chased her home.
Once, their eyes locked across the room.
Panic flashed like fireworks in her chest...
Quarantine closed school doors suddenly.
Rooms replaced classrooms.
Screens replaced smiles.
Textbooks collected dust.
Unfinished love poems lived in her heart.
Videos played where desks once stood.
Weeks blurred into moths.
Xylophone notes chimed from her little brother’s room.
Yearning waited down the hallway.
Zoom became the only place she saw him now.
Disappointment is 20/20
I wrote this poem for a contest, a prompt meant to stretch creativity within tight rules. I love challenges. I enjoy shaping story from structure, letting language move naturally instead of forcing it to comply.
The results of the contest were disappointing. The work that was recognized felt more like box checking than storytelling. It lacked personal connection. While contests can spark good writing, they don’t always reward the poetry that means something.
I’m sharing this poem here, where it can just be a poem that tells a story. It might feel simple, but it took work to get that comfortable feel. I hope you enjoy this moment, this year, and the way it still lingers.
Happy Accident
I know, it looks like a typo. Weeks blurred into moths. Moths? Didn’t I mean months? Yes. It began as a typo, but the longer I let it sit, the more I liked it.
What do you think?
The Prompt
My contest prompt was to write a poem in the abecedarian form . It was a challenge to move through the alphabet while still telling a story. I enjoy working within structures like this because they push me to think differently about word choice and flow. My goal is always to let the form naturally support the narrative. It should not overpower it. The reader should feel the moment before noticing the mechanics behind it.