as we drown before the florescent glow
of the lampshade sticky ****
and the ache washes over
the back of our heads
the soreness in our eye socket

books are propped and buried
deep in our faces
in the adolescent curve of noses
the smell of intelligence is supposed to waft
the scent of future and brightness,
the scent of bigger ambition

yet instead stench of synthetic obligations
tingle through the tunnel of our nostrils
and lingers in the back of our skulls
cloudy, sharp, confusing and mean
it bites my friend, it bites

the sound of pencil scratching on paper
keyboards clicking away
and mouths whitened from strenuous furrow
feel the bag underneath the eye
sag and droop, weakened and drained

feel the emptiness
the emptiness in purpose
shoved to drive us on
the dollar bills will not shaft well, my friend
if you don't meet our obligations,
and so they say

yet let me tell you
let me speak for you
the creamy glance of yellow light
which shafts across the wall of brick
the isles of easels mounted with canvases
pulled taught and hiding its willowy smile

let me tell you
how my heart flutters at the creak of floorboard
how my fingers handle the spine of brushes
and how paper speaks for itself
the studio plastered with splatters of whirling colors
the dusty smell of vast, open space
the echo of imagination reverberating into
seeds of exploration

let me tell you
how my eyes wander across the soft succulent surfaces
the worn golden door handle
the prickly screech of a hinge
the chalky scratch of charcoal
and the rows of inking presses
waiting to compress the next
monograph etches and linoleum spur

let me tell you,
to those who frown
to those who squint their ugly faces
to those who denied
let me tell you,
I would belong
than rather be replaced