This poem is dedicated not only to you,

but also to the person who taught you,

and the person who taught them

and so on and so forth.

There seems to be a misconception

that poems are only about dissection.

Analyzing and explaining every bit and piece,

figuring out why it’s there and seeing if there’s something underneath.

The teacher plugs in her own ideas that make even the poet confused

Now you tell me why this isn’t front page news:

“Teacher kills poetry for promising students”

She fried their brains with terms and curriculum idolatries.

Turning off their poetic switch,

and putting potential poems in a ditch.

Not once did she claim to believe,

that a poem, needs to breathe.

With every mark an annotation

 causes word strangulation.

That promotes, the cancelation

of  innovation

to new and improved frustration

of the mind

and the heart

and the thought that the poet put into the piece.

She wants to carve out its soul,

so that the only thing that’s left are the bones.

Leaving poem wastelands and graveyards.

This class is where poems come to die.

After they’ve been analyzed 

and analyzed

and traumatized.

This is where poems lie, when they can no longer

waltz with papa,

or choose between two diverged roads.

Whisper Nazi slurs to Daddy,

or let dreams, explode.