rap my red hands with your ruler

rap my red hands with your ruler, woman.

beat down my boyish lust.

kill the only calling I ever cared about.

give me a grade, godforsaken prophetess.

I was made to make: you can’t make me.

your system says I suck. good.

A’s go to the anal and asinine. good.

my mind was made for more. good.

When you see my name on a hundred thousand words of my own imagining, you’ll know why I shrugged at your lectures and your all-caps proclamations.

give it to the freshmen. goodbye.

3 thoughts on “rap my red hands with your ruler

  1. “It occurred to me that being an artist is a great deal like being a dictator. Just like a dictator, I must live in a closed loop of self-delusion. A place where my words and ideas always ring true. A gilded daydream of grandiosity. There can be no room for doubt. I must be convinced that I have something vital to say. I must believe that the world is waiting in keen anticipation to hear my message.” – Allen King, April 2011

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