My poetry professor from college days,
a laid-back sort until, touching on art,
his sweet drawl could break your aspiring heart.
If your tired language made his eyes glaze,
he marked it, “precious.” That meant rephrase
those deep feelings, maybe take them apart;
try images, metaphors and please depart
from lazy writing and burned-out pathways.
Young lovers break up and renew, or not —
this is old, make it new, find the freshness.
Death is overdone, a poet’s cheap shot,
unless the lyrics reveal life’s essence.
Let consciousness stream, but not with old rot;
Practice language as art, don’t be precious.