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"

Ivory towers,
   fools in regalia,
         they think themselves kings,
              deciding what is good academic art.


For years I cried,
     For years I tried,
          Mocked,
              irrelevant,
                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 can!
"You Can't"
I want to write
"You are not good enough"
Why cant we create creative pieces?
"Academic research is all that matters"
Why
"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?