Last night, I spent hours,
creating a poem. The diction,
depicted a painting, of a child,
being burned. By villagers who felt that the painting itself was proof that the artist
was a pedophile. Yet, it was false, for the artist
actually painted a child, as a reminder,
of his own days of youth.
Mrs. Finch, derailed my poem,
causing it to bleed red ink.
“F”--- Was the scar, she carved
on my work, for it was “too weak,” with not enough eloquent vocabulary.
And, no rhyme scheme. “This isn’t poetry!” was what Mrs. Finch screamed to me.
Meanwhile, Jane, a girl seated next to me,
scribbled her poem, right before class.
She threw in phrases, such as,
“Loneliness peaks my heart,
For the world conceives no art.
I still think of your soul,
Glistening like a diamond bowl.”
Mrs. Finch, drew a smiley face,
on her poem, crowning her with the grade of a red-inked “A”
She commended her, for being so talented.
She even recited, said poem, during class.
Everyone clapped. And cheered.
Proclaiming it as, “A great work of art.”
Whoop-dee-fucking-doo. I’m a terrible poet
Yume Kim is an alumni of San Francisco State University, with an MA in English and an MFA in Creative Writing. She is also a Kundiman fellow recipient, having attended the Kundiman Poetry Retreat during the summer of 2012. Her debut publication, Reserve the Right, is now available through Nomadic Press.