I wrote this one during my 12th grade AP exam a bit less than a year ago; almost forgot about it completely. Thought I'd post it here.
"My my, how scholastic!"
Thought the token poet
as he watched the other aspiring white-collar donning
skim through their standardized papers
and sharpen their No.2 pencils
as lazily as possible.
Meanwhile, he sat there, puzzled,
with a certain question constantly battering his mind:
"What the fuck is the point?"
Angelou and Dickinson were not born for concrete philosophy.
They did not form a flourishing union with the pen just to become
some mathematical code to be deciphered
by the future lawyers of America.
The art of writing...
Once again, the art of writing
Is exactly what it is:
It is meant to seep through the skin
and challenge its taker for more than 40 minutes on the dot;
meant to be more than just a crossword puzzle;
meant to be more than a just a chance for multiple choice questions
to pounce on their puberty-stricken prey
with inferences on tone, subject, and syllogisms in between
They are the speaker.
You are the audience.
That's the beginning of the journey,
and the end should never be the same
A few months later, token poet gets great news:
FAIL WITH FLYING COLORS.