newtothis
10/21/09, 03:58 PM
The Lilac in the sidewalk crack;
The Ivy on deserted hut;
The dusty marks on pre-stained glass,
All road marks of this wandering.
The Monster in the dead pan mead,
My Grendel tearing life from limb,
The backbeat of this nursery rhyme,
Couldn’t put Humpty together again.
Insidious yellow of classroom walls
Diana’s arrow set to thrive,
That gnarlish paper seems to shift,
My knuckles bloody from pounding inside.
Cuticles pulsing at the nerves,
Fingers fat from constant break,
Arthritic clicking of black ink pens,
Over and over and over again.
“What’s the point?” my soul, it cries,
“Of class and work and daily life?
So stagnant, useless, infinitely vile,
Wanting to be more all the while.”
Yet trapped in peanut butter puddles and
Honey clouds my parachute catch,
The mill of words that always crushes,
Chanting voices that push and churn.
I think I would prefer not to.
The Ivy on deserted hut;
The dusty marks on pre-stained glass,
All road marks of this wandering.
The Monster in the dead pan mead,
My Grendel tearing life from limb,
The backbeat of this nursery rhyme,
Couldn’t put Humpty together again.
Insidious yellow of classroom walls
Diana’s arrow set to thrive,
That gnarlish paper seems to shift,
My knuckles bloody from pounding inside.
Cuticles pulsing at the nerves,
Fingers fat from constant break,
Arthritic clicking of black ink pens,
Over and over and over again.
“What’s the point?” my soul, it cries,
“Of class and work and daily life?
So stagnant, useless, infinitely vile,
Wanting to be more all the while.”
Yet trapped in peanut butter puddles and
Honey clouds my parachute catch,
The mill of words that always crushes,
Chanting voices that push and churn.
I think I would prefer not to.