Short stories written, in a creative writing course,
Under your sharp eyes became, refined from coarse.
That you read out excerpts, and appreciated in class,
Made me feel like I'm 24 carats, not polished brass.
Getting a seat in your course, was a stroke of luck,
The assignments forced, my creativity to run amok.
Though you were a celebrated poet, I never read your verse,
Our styles didn't really resonate- for better or worse.
My collection's dark theme, was at odds with your ideology,
Not sure if you read till the end, for the epilogue was my apology.
I sent you my novella, expecting a Dakshina from my Guru,
You were obliged to get me published, just like the sky is blue.
I was audacious in those days, I am audacious still,
I admire you as my teacher, but I'll keep sharpening my quill.
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