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.