University Creative Writing Club

by May 26, 2024 0 comments

My nine line poem circulates
like a minor infection
we’re too stubborn to wait for
at a doctor’s office for a prescription,
and the professor holds a pencil,
sharp as a scalpel starving for surgery,
underlining lines suffering
from cliches and malignant wording,
while my metaphor comparing
a lovely face to a watering can
quenches some of the more romantic members,
but the professor wasn’t fooled
by my diseased sentimentality,
which left me with another scar
I laugh about now
because there’s no other way.

editors note:

The club where clubbers take a clubbing for art. – mh clay

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