This is a prequel to my other poem, “Diamonds”. Please enjoy.

Edit, 1-2-3, Redo

We call ourselves “editors”

But we don’t really “edit”.

We just select some random stories

That we think are kind of nice

And publish them in our magazine

And everyone thinks that’s it.

That’s not it.

Editing is to go through with a red pen

And find some mistakes

Or just general weak spots

And point them out to the person

And either have them fix it

Or hope they improve later on.

But we aren’t doing that.

We’re not corresponding with these people.

We’re lucky if they even leave a name

On the entry.

The stories we receive are mediocre at best

And often make so little sense

That I wonder if this was the first time

They attempted to write a plot.

The poetry section

Is a bit better.

It’s got far better grammar,

Spelling,

And overall quality,

But the poems are always

About either love

(Or any emotion for that matter—love is most common)

Or some sort of philosophical matter

That always ends up being warped

Because it is just too deep for

A bunch of teenagers

To really comprehend.

The short story section is

Such a strange little mix of the two.

Some of the stories are memoirs

And some are rather badly-written things

About some sort of impossibly ridiculous situation,

Like a talking pastry having an adventure,

Or a horribly overused plot

About an orphaned child

Who discovers she has the strange and magical ability

To (pick one): 1) talk to animals

2) turn into any animal

Or 3) both of the above, with about a dozen other

Disgustingly perfect qualities into the bargain.

Occasionally, by some fluke,

Someone will write a story that is actually good,

But the really good ones

Are always, always, always anonymous.

And this can be

So very frustrating.

I am not allowed to edit in the way I want to.

I am not allowed to congratulate the good authors,

Because they don’t want to be congratulated.

So I am forced

To sit here and watch

The standards of literature tumble down

And my friends,

Who I had admired so much,

Make fools of themselves

Because I can do nothing

But pick and choose

And because I cannot

Truly edit.

Who came up with this system?

I’d like to edit their ideas

Because this one needs a redo.

I know, it wasn’t great, but I couldn’t think how to end it.

And yes, these are my personal frustrations on my school literary magazine. And I’m not even an editor—so imagine what I’ll be like if I get into the class that publishes it next year!

Please review.