I wrote the following poem at a point in time where I was becoming very frustrated with my college work.  My professors were attempting to prepare me for teaching English language arts to my students, but at the same time were demanding little creativity and an excess of factual regurgitation.  This isn’t to say what I was learning was not of value–because it very much so was; it simply did not demand nor inspire a creative spirit.  I came to identify this transition from the creative to the academic as mirroring my transition into adulthood.


I used to write poetry

when I was young,

and loved the sound of my words

and the look of my own thoughts

before me.


I am no longer enamored with myself.

The light hits me differently

and my taste is not as sweet.


I write essays now,

because I have become older.

The words hold little beauty

and my thoughts are thoughts

thought before and mean

so little to me.


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