Your boss is always right, she says,
As she wields a pen of heavy red
That bites and wounds my worried words,
And my former self-belief goes blurred.
Your boss is always right, she mouths,
As my typo sends her humour south.
I hang my head, gut full of shame,
Have all my creative leaps gone lame?
Your boss is always right, she shouts,
As my brain cells begin to cower in doubt:
Is my work that flat, that nondescript,
Does her critique always have to be sour-lipped?
Your boss is always right, she yells,
As I reflect upon this straitjacket hell
Of rigid rules, of constant digs.
A model of how you can’t forgive.
Your boss is always right, she screams
Hysteria’s norm? That’s what it seems.
A dumbed-down doer is all she wants,
But there’s more to me than a size-12 font.
I may type your amends
With intentions well meant
But you can’t reach the real me
‘Cos I’m a Creative Escapee.
So yes, the boss is always right
But the red pen certainly doesn’t delight.
What rules my world is being in sync
With my authentic guide of true-self ink.