October 9, 2012
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In my prison cell, I sit
being tortured every day forced to write until my blisters burst puss.
I plead for any other torture method but all I receive is
Stern looks and denial.
It’s a dictatorship.
The factor is,
Creative writing makes every bone in my body
From the endless writing of
nonsense, utter lies
and humbo-jumbo I throw up on my paper, at the last minute just to do the assignment.
To the impossible to reach word count.
Words start stretching and bending,
my writing seems as if its never ending word puzzle
going every which way possible,
it’s a maze on paper.
My fluency as a writer isn’t going to improve
by writing three 250 word writes every week.
Teachers are obviously in denial and think kids go home on the weekends say:
“Oh I love to write every waking moment”.
But reality is we all HATE IT.
No one likes to write all that,
if they do, they are lying
and just kissing the shoes of the teacher and groveling just for a decent grade
or they are obviously possessed by a diabolical ghost of creative writing past.

I despise every factor of creative writing.
From the nasally voice of my teacher.
To the rule of no music while writing.
The silence is nerve raking; I want to rip all my hair from its roots
It too quiet in here.
I feel deprived as if I have hole in my heart, and its missing
The sweet melodies of my music that once filled my heart
are gone.
I’m unable to focus,
creation of beautiful poetry is stop in a halt.

I Falling to my knees in absolute terror
I’m superman,
but my kryptonite is creative writing.
I scream to the sky in scorching pain,
“I don’t have a topic.”
Rambling about random topics, seems the only road I travel.
I go on and on about everything and anything until
stinging in my hand is over whelming.
I have to quit writing.
I finished, looking at my paper in disgust.
I’m my own critic.
Crumbling every paper and tossing it in the air
in violent motion, due to my frustration.
It’s all garbage.
The reality smacks me in the face,
who is ever going to write a poem about;
the weather, school, about how I feel or some guy on the bus who was eating a sand which at the time?
My writing is just pointless, POINTLESS I SWEAR!
Every single time.
My creative juices are in need of fuel.
They are on their hands knees groveling for ideas.
But my brain shakes its head in refusal and won’t throw them a bone,
it’s empty of ideas.
They all left the coop the minute I walked in the prison
My ideas want me to fail.

Diabolical thoughts, flows through my brain and bounces every which way,
I would love if this class disappeared from the high school, didn’t exist or
exploded in some way.
A devious smirk would magically appear on my face,
a dance of joy would uproot, and cheering would be heard all around
no more tone, no more imagery,
no more repetition, no more poetry,
no more juxtaposition, no more oxymoron,
no more hand cramps,
no more creative writing,
ever, ever EVER AGAIN.

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