It doesn't matter what Edgar Allan Poe wants me to think. He's dead.

This thought struck me today as I was sitting in English class, scribbling about the various symbolic meanings of ravens and their relationship to Poe's craft. It really doesn't matter. Dead dude writes a pretty poem about a bird. Symbolmetaphorinterpretbullshit.

Don't get me wrong; it's not like I haven't had this particular epiphany before. I'm not trying to say that this is an original thought, especially when it comes to verse you've read approximately 638,924 times prior.

I've always hated reading poetry for English classes. I'm no good at deciphering metaphors and the author's true message. Doesn't it make more sense for me to focus on how a poem makes me feel? I'd rather not worry about the writer's intent. It sounds selfish, I know, but for once I'd like to take an English course that said, "Hey, read some pretty stories and poetry and then just think about them. No essays, no multiple-choice bullshit, just aesthetically pleasing strung-together words." Just once I'd like to take a class that actually focused on thought for thought's sake. Instead teachers can only feed us the same regurgitated slop necessary for various standardized testing that's mandated by clueless cowboy presidents.

That last sentence was too complex for its own good. I'm gonna go find some NyQuil.