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A Dead Poet (Society)

Somewhere in the dark a kid slaves over his art
hands are stained with charcoal, eyes pinched and strained
there’s something glorious about this nipping, nagging pain.
Searching for something to draw
or, god, what is the word?
Feeling with his fingertips
he’s god shaping the earth.

Then his mom comes barging in
and flips on his light
suddenly the papers are gone
and now his art’s alight.
Mom is screaming “I thought we talked!”
as his dad watches the flames
the kid sees his dreams soar
right up the chimney’s raze.

“You’re wasting opportunity!” His mother shouts again,
holding a book called “Medical” and shoving it into his hand
“We’re only doing what is best,” his father adds to this
the boys traps his words behind his thinning lips.

The boy goes on to college and cannot find the time
to sit and think about the word
that will complete his rhyme.
His scribbles take up too much space on his term papers
After all, what’s more important than learning nomenclature?

The mother is so glad her son got to enjoy this privilege
and so much gladder now that he’s stopped calling it “prison.”
That boy is now a man, you know
brain surgeries, he’s giving
his friends all say “you’re saving lives!”
but he doesn’t much like living.



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