My World

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Anger, fist, chest, me.

Twitchy, annoying, unbelievably wrong, her.

What right does she have to ‘teach’ poetry?

She has no passion! No wonder!

She is an over analyst. She cannot sit and understand without having a tangible thing to understand.

Poetry and its beauty evades her.

She makes you analyze, over analyze everything,

Until you are disgusted with yourself

For tearing apart such a beautiful work.

The simplicity of letting understanding come to you, or not understanding all together,

Is an obscene idea to her miniscule box of an open mind.

Even her ‘ideas’ make sense

And you can never say something that leaves open-ended possibilities…

She twists your words, your opinions your passion until they lie

As wasted as a used tea bag. Dried out and useless.

What use is it to have someone teaching a passionate subject who has no passion and sucks all passion out of it for others?

Who changes the subject from a trickle of understanding,

To a horde of dissecting analyzation.

That is not what poetry is meant for.

It is meant to be there for the times when you need a sanctuary in your head,

Not a whirlpool of insanity and never ending thoughts.

The anger inside hurts so much,

The deflowering, the dissection of passion,

The horrifying organization of that which has already been beautifully organized.

No right has she to tear the world of sanctuary apart, my world.

The admiration that once was there has been tossed,

By the re-organization of the beautifully organized,

Since it seemed to her an unorganized, undisected, disgusting thing.

As though it was a piece of garbage, and that is perfectly fine with me.

I laugh at her blindness, her lack of passion, and therefore of poetry and of life.

It is the cause of her oddity and her complete and utter wrongness!