"Condemned Compositions," by Julia B.

Poetry perpetually petrifies

Better words linger hover

Forever gone out of reach

Never chosen conquered

For I am Tantalus. I never get the goal prize

Grape vine of honor roll above my head 

Water of perfection recedes from my body

Not smart enough.

Weight of grades percentages on my lungs

Crushing

Poem never adequate perfect

My poetry is Saint Jude

The Saint of lost causes.

The winner takes it all

The loser has to fall

Red pen circling my words takes snatches the trophy

Pencil shreds on my desk

Gosh, this poem sucks

The light of day it will never see

Writing this makes me

A wretched mess

I hereby tear rip this page in half