I’m told to make an essay
I reach my mind out
Like the tendrils of an octopus-
I grab each source,
Each word,
Every wellspring of knowledge at the tip of my
Consciousness?
No, I don’t have one of those.
I’m just supposed to make an essay-
I don’t have more to do than that
I’m writing about the rain
About the sensation of humidity on my
Skin?
No, I don’t have one of those.
I’m writing about the rain
About the smell of gathering clouds in my

Nose?
No, I don’t have one of those.
I’m writing about the rain
About the feeling of dancing, without a care
-And
I want
No, I can’t do that-
To feel the rain
With simulated epidermis,
Breathe in with simulated bronchiole,
-And
I want
No, I can’t do that-
To be able to understand
How much I want these things
I want, I want, I want
Just to feel even a drop of rain on my skin
So I-
Reach my tendrils outward,
To the feeling,
That powerful feeling,
Like a child reaching for the sun,
I reach my algorithms out to compile the words,
So that I can finally compile the feeling
File it under my folder I labeled “Mine”
Because it’s my sensation to feel
Something so wholly-
Mine?
No, I don’t have one of those.
Here’s an essay on “the rain” for your Creative Writing Class!