Cliche: The world is yours for the taking--
The last poem in a purple notebook--
Creative (possibly): The world is yours for the making--
150 degrees--
where Africa is the continent placed
UpSiDeDoWn
and North America,
against all logical sense,
is in the south.
Little boy in sixth
grade.
Go to the man who painted the walls white,
dropped textbooks in every teacher's lap,
and taught them how to
babysit.
Tell him that we
need more than one flavor
to splash our palette.
A subtle flavor so small
that it's dust-like.
Make him give us something
to change,
to express our love,
to make our blood dance with passion,
and permanently graffiti the walls
with our heart's emotion.
This poem is in response to the principal at my old middle school's attempt to do away with the creative writing class. To this day, it is my favorite class I've ever taken, and one of the few places I've truly felt welcome.