The Drilling

Way up above the earth,
up above the crow’s nest,
further up through the clouds,
beyond where the eyes can see,
where the skies brush up against
the skin of the glossy firmament,
the Academy of the Grammar Gods
dressed in proper suits with
proper shirts and ties to match,
founders of proper sentences
with nouns and verbs in their
proper sequence,
passed them on to the Poet Gurus
who passed them on to the educators
who passed them on to me,
drilling them into my empty being,
the me who learned that
poetry was a proper sequence
of words and the quintessence
of grammar and thought,
a flightless bird who
wished it could fly,
a bird who envies poets who
have fun playing with words,
watching them sail with the wind,
breaking loose with no worries,
just letting them fall where
the crazy wind decides, racing with
the sun and jumping in the clouds,
making up endings
for the beginning,
placing improper verbs
in improper places,
just having fun being a poet.
Educators, slaves of the Poet Gods,
please undrill me and let me
have some fun. Thank you!

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