“Eh, poetry doesn't really mean much to me. It's just something I do when bored,” Maud said.
“Wha-what?”
“I'm bored a lot, so I write a lot of poetry. It's all about rocks.”
“I... heh-heh. That's... something. But real poetry is from the happy, sunny soul and talks about nice stuff like, um, sunshine and happiness.”
“I'd rather write about rocks.”
“Oh, no no no. You're just misguided, is all. Why, you just haven't discovered your inner passion yet. If you stick with me, I'll unlock it for you and you'll be writing poetry about colorful baby bunnies in no time at all!” Floral Spectrum grinned cheerfully.
“How is that any more poetic than writing about rocks?” Maud asked.
“It... just is.” Floral scowled. “Don't question it.”
“Shouldn't you be more concerned with how the poems are written than what they're about?”
“I'm the teacher, and I get to make the rules! If I say that happy, fluffy, sunny, poetry is the only real type of poetry then that's how things will be.” Floral snorted.
“No thanks.” Maud turned around left. No wonder that teacher didn't have many students—she was clueless about her subject. Maud might like her poetry, but she wasn't going to be getting a degree in it here from that teacher.
Drat.