I can't see my future, with my present sight, but mother says that I will be alright.

I have been skipping online classes as of late; assignments turned cold, piled up on my plate.

I am uncertain of what the future holds, certainly apprehensive of tomorrow.

Every year, in English class, we have a poetry unit.
I rarely pay attention.
I get a low A on every vocab quiz and
I can ******* my way through essays

I like poetry, though. I love it, in fact.
I don’t like analyzing it.

Poetry isn’t made for English class.
It isn’t made for stuffy classrooms in ancient buildings full of kids who would rather be anywhere else.

Poetry is made for reading at three in the morning
When the world is crashing down
When it feels like my insides are my outsides
And nothing will ever be okay
Poetry is there for me then
Poetry is made to hold up the sky
Or at least a blanket fort in my bedroom
Poetry is made for laying me softly down to sleep
And for waking me up to the bright, beautiful daylight
And reminding me that everything will be okay

I love how you imagine us together
Oh how knifes are so pretty.

Another day, another hour spent looking at cadavers,
Surprisingly fun, and suspiciously fresh bodies-
"Hey Mrs. Johnson, what do you think John did with his life?"
She gave me a look that didn't seem too pleased at my inquisition.
Or the fact that I named our body John.
Morbidly, I thought she looked at me like a zombie would look at our friend John like a cold cut subway sandwich,
Although I figured if I were a zombie,
I'd prefer my meat fresh, and not embalmed
with formaldehydes and ethanol.
"That thought seems inappropriate and not respectful of the medical sacrifice 'john' made " she said dripping with in my opinion too much sarcasm for me to NOT respond too.
"Well, John is dead, I don't think he's getting offended anytime soon," I retorted.
Her smile contorted like the prudish smile John offered me in support.
"I'm not worried about offending the corpse as much as I am the ghost, and this Lab will NOT be haunted under my watch"
(Her pride in her wit inflated much like Johns body inflated with decomposition and bowel gases.)
I apologized internally for the comment and action  I was about to make-
"This medical dictatorship has to collapse sooner or later-
and I still want an answer too my question"
And with that,
I took the nearest scalpel to his bloated stomach,
and watched in disgust and glee as everyone else ran for cover amongst the ****** of stomach contents and Johns final retribution in death.
I got an A+ in that class.

Sometimes I'm the boy
who stood helpless
on my grandmother's porch
looking down the hill
upon Hell's fire
and the black plumes
that pushed men
into early graves

–Ron Gavalik

hungry for power
while the poor starve from hunger
the rich shall cower

I’ve been left alone in my class as I always am.

I observe how beige encrustings work on the ceiling humming electronically in this feeble light we have with our current weather like mistied silver with choked charcoal out of someone’s throat stoic with inexistent illness.

It seems to me I’m pressed with time to go out as I usually am
by some codexes
but I just can’t help being glued standing to my chair and watching with an unspecified wistfulness and melancholy as students’ bike
/
come and go here from above
/
and no one knows how many afternoons of watching or window sill standing I’ve spent like that,
where the window the teacher has every time overlooks one
of these trees only I keep in my mind’s eye
and all that with me included stays
abandoned (but not exactly morosely) to play the part of watch keepers lasting still
like pillars no one will account for.

And l felt how my shift there and the thing I and this room made chose you to be answered there.
And as I couldn’t help but keep carrying the conscience luggage with you within it so carefully whilst I was blending my abandoned singing there with how you might be transfixing yourself in perplexities of uncertainty.
And I’m telling you I read your text place just when it came, have been carrying you as my desired task to, as an injured animal yet with no degradation this state. I kept making a letter I would give inside my eyes and small fidgets of hands.

I wonder at how it is I who writes
and how it is You who writes.
One another.