That's no good, said Miss pointedly,
As my poetic dart hit a wall
Made of contempt and frustration,
All hers, not really mine at all.

Where’s the structure, the rhythm?
Why there’s nothing at all,
Just a jumble of ink smudged words
You may as well scrunch in a ball.

I sat patiently and weathered this storm,
As her wind rattled windows inside my hall.

Are you listening Blake?
No, not at all.
Though perhaps just a bit,
Enough to recall,
Eighteen years later,
Long after your fall.

Perhaps you were right, and I was too young,
To see quite how bad my poetry was penned
On ink spotted pages in tea stains of angst,
The rules being lost as I twist them and bend.

So this is to you, my old English witch,
Who cursed my work with dismal dismay.
Maybe I learned a little bit more
Than you thought I did that day.