Your words cut like a knife,
like electricity searing down my veins.
I tore off the callouses of my heart,
and showed you the soft tissue within.
But you let the careless words drip off your tongue,
which burned me like acid until bubbles formed on my skin.
I wasn’t aware that you own the rights to imagination,
or that you can take classes on the right way to share your soul.
I didn’t know that people sat in a circle on dusty old school chairs,
while they pick apart and discuss if someone’s dreams are valid or not.
Oh please, I am dying to hear,
What is the right way that I should rest my head down on my pillow,
so that my late night musings can gain the correct letter grade?
If I sleep on my left side,
will my dreams then be enough to get a swiftly written ‘good job’ on the top right corner?
Tell me, is there a proper way for me to take off my shoes,
before I dip my feet into the dewy ocean of fresh, green grass?
Must I tilt my head exactly 90 degrees as I stare at the bright blue sky,
so that I can get in your book and your critics can tell me I am a good writer?
You can keep your grades and your criticism and your lofty ideals of what it means make art,
meanwhile, I will be busy getting my feet wet and my finger nails dirty as I go out find out what it means to truly be alive.