too caught up with
school
to be writing poetry.

its all
circulation notes, immunology test
trigonometry with the tangents and roots
the middle ages, why Christians were jerks
3D printing rocket ships and bridges from sticks
the fifty-paged reading assignments
and, pourquoi est-ce que je n'ai pas tiempo?

but wait, its all wrong
falling behind, failing with 85s
of course it wasn't B *******,
and it was Franks all along
structures don't meet the load capacity over mass ratio,
and the hypothenuse - opposite - adjacent ratios tangle,
like how spanish is now undifferentiated from french
and theres still fifty pages of reading

and still assignments due 11:59
get it right on time
before and after Christ
the rise and fall of Rome
the fall of your sanity, rather
and heck, just ******* lie!
say that enzymes denature and B cells die
and the reason you cry is for your innate defenses
and pathogens and
not because its too much
its too much
its too much

who has time for poetry?
****, who cares about poetry?
me? hah, don't care about nothin',
just that I'm still fifty ******* pages behind.

I'm a spectator, maybe even an occasional commenter,
But my borders limit me.
The bubble, it magnifies everything,
And shifts waves so that I see all in a different light.

It's truly beautiful,
But you have to understand how my world view and experience is different from yours.
An ant to you can be a world to me.
Often, its too much,
But you think I'm just being dramatic.

Its isolating, to be trapped within it.
I can't quite reach out to others,
So I'm always just at the border.

I graze my fingers over the surface.
Just past it, normalcy.
I'm so close
Yet so
so
far.