A Letter to My Creative Writing Professor

Your class was the worst thing that ever happened to my poetry

Every night my homework was to spill my soul across a page

Telling my class stories and truths I wish I could forget

And every class when I turned in my poem

You ripped out its pulsing heart

Took my favorite part and tore it to shreds

Changing the meaning of the poem

Until the story was something I didn’t even know

You marked me down for telling the truth

Saying “poems are lies masked as art”

Receive a B-minus in telling the truth

B-minus in being creative

So I started to turn in your poetry instead of mine

Poems telling your truths. Your life. Your story

Well, I got an A

But the flags of my creativity are flying at half-mast

Mourning the tragedy of a poet lost

I forgive you for killing a poet to be

But I will never forgive you for telling that girl,

the girl who sat next to me,

to kill herself.

You should have known

Her poems were full of blood and knives

Drawing on wrists

white walls

You should have known

Last day of class and she left crying

You are a teacher

You should have known

This only goes to show

Those who know nothing

Are often in charge

I do not hope you kill yourself.

I hope you live forever

So you can think about that girl

With the violent poems

And think about the poems

You violently killed

And then maybe


Your poetry will find truth


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