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July 24, 2011

Composed on loose-leaf during class, of course.

The classrooms hum and simmer, lukewarm

fluorescent lights drone on and on in

repetitive oscillations that mix static haze.

The pressure numbs my brain: succumb!

to the banal and gray, mundane and plastic,

walls are cups of coffee over-creamed.

Diluted books sit alone with empty heads

and elementary education; this place is waste-land –

a desert long deserted, arid and vast.

I don’t know how long I can last –

Light ought not to be sickening, but it spills

out from the sun with radiation for cancer.

It kills the teacher’s words before they reach me and

So I am become Life, Creator of Worlds:

I write.


From → Poetry

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