How Unkind The Red Pen Of Criticism

It follows us throughout our life that ink meant to correct.
I wonder if they know the parts of my life they wrecked.
The color sat there mocking me about the parts Id missed.
I know I knew that stupid part. I just went blank! Id insist.

Thirty years have come and gone since the day I graduated.
But as I sit writing this poem that fear steps in belated.
Am I good or just alright? Will I ever be good enough?
Amazing how a colored pen can make me judge so rough.

Spell checkers make me crazy underlining things in red.
That part is grammatically wrong, or so the checker said.
Fuck you! to the spell checker and Fuck you! to the teacher.
Id like to stab her with that fucking pen, but perhaps this poem will reach her.

~by leathermenace on May.28, 2009





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