Dear Mr. Gove,
As I look around, I’ll tell you what I see:
A world of happiness, enthusiasm and keen, turned horrifically
Into one of misery, pain, and utter anxiety.
Because this world around me is the world of the youth,
A world of the children who try so hard to please
The authority, the older ones of whom they need.
And yet, here I come,
A writer, my art is my majesty,
My imagination and my creativity
I take it all from those figures of authority.
But those teachers, those inspirations,
They aren’t sitting in nonchalance and relaxation,
Because they too are being deprived
From earning their reward in this contrived life.
Imagine if it were you,
Sitting in Commons, gotten out
Of the great big political zoo,
“Pension cut; no way will I have that for me!” You’ll say.
And this is why I say,
We are people, humans, in this world of mine,
We aren’t robots, we need help and time.
Yet again, we’re being undermined.
Remember, we’re the future generation,
The youth of today and the earners in tomorrow’s nation,
Our jobs are going to pay for your life pension,
And it brings me to another point for your compensation.
For there was once a man, named William Shakespeare,
The Stratford born playwright, he was seen as Britain’s best,
Some even say much better than our Adele and all the rest,
But as a young ‘un, a child, he was but a citizen, an ordinary person.
But Sir, he became this huge motivation, this inspiration,
An answer to the prayers for writing acclamation,
And it was all due to that meagre education, and the talent, intermixed;
For everyone that is seen, from Tolkien, to Rowling,
To the quiet girl at the back of Year Six,
They all have the potential.
Dear Mr. Gove,
A wise man once said: “It is our choices . . . that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities.”
And this man’s name was Albus Dumbledore, and now you may say, he was only a character in a book,
But he wasn’t, he is real in our hearts and minds, conceived in imagination and
Always, truly living, you just have to look and you will find.
And Albus is correct, for what we choose to do in life that shows the measure of a man,
And our choices for the future may be absurd, but when it comes,
That little girl that continuously wrote could make a bestseller with high sums,
Do not underestimate the power of words, for they can change you, and shape you and make you.
And though it might sound selfish of me, I must say,
I want to be the one to make one’s day,
And I want to be an author; you cannot judge me for it,
I shall one day hope to receive that title that I wish I can hit:
Wordsmith, though I have not the grace of one yet,
Maybe in sometime I will, with tears, hard work and sweat.
And so Mr. Gove, look at the world,
Our nation prevails by only some luck,
Look, think: the teachers need their win also,
We work so hard to make them proud too,
But they need some reassurance that they’ve helped at least a few.
Also, do not forget us students,
With time and care and motivation,
We will lift up Britannia on its foundation,
For we are the foundation, the decreed next generation,
We worry and we strife,
Utter melancholy may strike,
But it will go, for this is the world we live in;
This is the world I live in.
When I wake up from my everlasting dreams.
Dreams that will one day become a reality.
And so, Mr. Gove, look over your plans very carefully,
Because five-year-old algorithms may seem like a good deed,
But in reality, you’re killing them, and they won’t be in the lead,
And our curriculum is fine, it is troubled rarely.
Anyway, it’s you that makes us pass barely.
GCSE A-C’s will just go low,
While the levels of stress will just raise above,
So come on, show us some love,
We’re trying to help, just let us and we’ll glow.
Dear Mr. Gove,
Let me tell you something honestly;
I am tired of hearing Ms shout and scream
“Six more week’s ‘til GCSE’s!”
Because the Year Eleven’s sitting next door,
They’re fed up and the world’s a bore.
Not because they don’t have effort or the keen,
But because they’re done with being stressed teens.
And they aren’t being spoiled brats either,
The teaching system’s having a seizure,
They know that they’ve got exams in six weeks,
“What’s the point in trying,” the Year Eleven’s say,
“When we won’t be given the jobs anyway?”
And so Mr. Gove, ponder up on my words,
‘Cause with a blink of a wary eye, you could be overthrown.
Maybe not physically, maybe not really,
But in the minds of the people, hell yes you will be.
Mr Gove, I’m not an adult,
I’m not even going to pretend to be.
I’m a child, umpteen years old,
Yet you’ve just been poetry slammed by me.