We worry and we wrestle
Day by Day
With the thought
We won't have enough
Our account balances
Sometimes as low
As our happiness.
And instead of wading
In life's treasured moments
Like some picturesque Hallmark
We sit in an ocean of frowns
Contagious they feed us
With the thoughts that
Maybe someday we
Might have enough
Maybe we too can
Have enough money
Where we can control
Our own destinies
And maybe if we just
Work hard enough
We too can join

The enlightened
The happy
The free
But as life's camera
Zooms out of focus
Our slave collars tighten
Around the dollars
We grip onto with our
Strength that slowly fades
Starving, as we stare
At some motivational story
Hanging on the mantle
Of our Master's mansions.

Algebra, how wonderful,
Calculus, even greater,
Do you want the cons,
Now or later?

Well, I can't say I don't enjoy it,
Mathematics is interesting enough,
But it can get a tad confusing,
And pretty freaking tough.

I'm currently in math class,
How funny is that?
Yeah, not much,
But we can't exactly chat.

We can't talk, I finished the task,
So now, what do I do?
Write a poem of course,
With equations like, 73+2.

I tried my best,
A poem in class,
I hope you enjoyed,
But it doesn't mean I'll pass.

There is a class
Across the sea
That's small in size
With students, three

The students' names
And average grades
Are A, B, C
The roll-book states

Of the trio
A's the one
Who aces tests
And frowns on fun

The apple of
His teacher's eye
A has nary
Cause to cry

Kid C exults
In being bad
He signs his name
"Rebellious Lad"

His afternoons
He's proud to mention
He spends with teacher
In detention

A classic class
Don't you agree?
What's that you say?
Oh, pardon me!

There's also B!
I quite forgot
An oversight-
Thanks a lot!

With each
CLICK
Our breath is held
Will he,won't he
Will he, won't he
The suspense is killing me
And....****
Door left open still
Pestered by the plebeian chill

In this gay little coffee shop
Surrounded by the unrecognised talent of Brighton:sketch artist staring at me, writer on his laptop, songwriter etching vigorously with his pencil.
All of which aren't closing the door.

The eyes roll.
Labouring my body up, hammering my legs across the floor, turning the factory handle.

All is ask is for some carrot cake,filtrate water,polo jumpers, avocado salads,tiger bread, slimmer trousers, slipper sock , a toyger.
Click
And then images of Kim Jong un pass through my head.
If I ruled you'd all be dead
Firing squad for an open door,
Loud music on the train'll be no more.
Stop the screaming misbehaving brats
The rabble of Spanish students
All this PC stuff on the news, train seats filled with cans of *****

Suddenly
The artist strolls up
Let's down his cup.
Closes the door swiftly
And slips back in his chair

Oh, so there is a god.

I guess Jesus didn't lie.

Be open-minded and admit the possibility
That some things are objectively wrong
We all live in a constant state of gray area

I see you pretty often, maybe once every week or so
For a moment our bubbles come very close to overlapping
But they so far have always held firm
Which is, in one respect, kind of amazing
Yet in another, to be expected

Our bubbles are made of rubber and concrete
Our lives are so different - we’re separated by
Class, gender, age, ethnicity and health history
Different in almost every way you could imagine
Save for location, which again is amazing

If we ever step out of our bubbles one day
And I actually hope we do
It will be uncomfortable, I imagine, and also
Potentially dangerous for both of us
But it could turn out great

Most people ask themselves I guess
Whether it’s worth the risk
And say no and they probably make assumptions
And I so far haven’t made too many about you
Although to make none is impossible and so of that I am proud

Some things might be wrong even if
Everyone does them and even if
You or I do them constantly
Without an ounce of guilt
It’s possible anyway

I'm in a class,
We sit in chairs.
The teacher talks,
They listen and stare.

And I'm unfocused.

My pen is scratching,
My mind is clear,
The class is there,
And I am here.

And I should focus.

Oh, ****.
It's quiet.
Have I been caught?
This is something that I should not
Be doing
But I can't help it,
I'm trying to get it,
But my mind is flying,
And I'm sick of trying and
My brain is crying for
More than I'm offered and
**** IT!

I just can't focus.

A flash of unripe banana green hair,
And the solemn padding of thumbs hitting a screen,
The wisp’s of dying flame,
A worn sticker on a pure evening blue water bottle,
The tight warm grip,
Of a beanie on my head,
The soft wind that air vents disperse,
The crisp smell of a sparse winter’s day,
Like wasabi, but clogging my nose instead of cleaning it,
The din of speaking and eating in a popular coffee shop,
And I’m just on my way to class