I cannot digest.
I consume the mandatory text, sometimes
spoonful, sometimes in chunks
my daily verbal diet.
But my swallows remain shallow, and my mind
works not as a sponge,
but a sieve that pours.
Inefficiency saturated.
Passing seconds of a shortening shelf-life
tick-tick-ticking, a hardwired bomb handed down
A worn dream that cages young minds
(the myth)
But my young mind dreams, of my judgement
Hardening up with every word they feed me,
I want to sum up human history, to know, to see
(Knowing it to be a luxury)

(Yet the sharpness of wit
is too fine an accessory to fit
on a body that aches, that creaks on sprint runs
that overflows with bruised sentiments and salt)
And yet,