“Poetry should be
Beautiful.”
Mrs. Cecil,
eighth grade English teacher,
said.
But what comes out of
me
is anything but
Beautiful.
Hate.
Violence.
Pain.
Disgust.
There is nothing
Beautiful
in the dark place in
my soul.
But it’s the only
poetry
I know.
It spews forth, full of vile—
Beautiful,
said Mrs. Cecil,
when I wrote about a
Rose.
But I don’t see
roses
today.