It was that time again last week. When I make my students write poetry. After the collective sigh has dissipated and they actually put pen to paper, the magic happens. Take a read:

by Melissa J.

Poems annoy me.
Let’s talk about some sad stuff!
Dress it up a bit,
tear it apart and slap it on the griddle.
It’s art!
See?
You cried!
How universal, art!
How relatable!
Publish me,
please.

The hours tick by.
The days race, blurring from crib to cane.
Soft skin turns dry.
Every crease turns to wrinkle.
Every wrinkle deepens with despair.
The child in you is old and dying,
tarnished by the life not wanted,
the life poorly chosen.
Bones grown old,
always cold.
Awaiting frigid embrace.