A clock sits above the desk of the english teacher.
Taking its sweet time as it ticks away, softly
sweetly.
lost in its own song, taking its own, sweet time
and the lecture, the endless lecture, drones on
regardless of whether i'm listening or not.
"poetry, is and art" the teacher says
"and to paint, you must have the right tools,
simile, metaphor, imagery, hyperbole"
Of coarse i know this...
I am familiar with the silent song of poetry
For i am a conductor, waving my cursor about and conducting the words to make their sweet music
For I am a composer, and with my quill I write my soulful symphony
for I use simile as often as a bird uses her wings
I've used a million words of hyperbole,
and alluring alliteration is nothing new to me
Poetry is an art, Mrs. Anderson
and I've painted a few thousand pictures
