Minutes turn to hours,
time is listless,
the meeting is dreary,
she wags her finger as if scolding a child,
scorned, humiliated, ashamed. . . .
" you are not qualified to challenge the system"
fools in regalia,
they think themselves kings,
deciding what is good academic art.
For years I cried,
For years I tried,
shadow. . I became. . .
I saw the best minds of my generation,
and I was not one, creativity had come and gone,
the flame of thought extinguished for I was told "You can't"
so many times. . . my heart started to beat to its metronomic rhythm!
I want to write
"You are not good enough"
Why cant we create creative pieces?
"Academic research is all that matters"
"Who would you be?"
. . .
I am me,
I like to write,
About flowers, indigenous ****, and a love that can never be.
& that makes me 𝓰𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓽.
So let my peers reach the accolades,
let my peers be published,
let my peers fit your definition of "great"
But I am me,
I am happy,
isn't that what matters?