I bathed down my screen rays more than the sun
I'm anxious of forgetting attendance
than not understanding ****
I'm not sick due to covid but I'm sick
of times new roman font size 12

I am forever
plagued by noisy yard work
when trying to sleep.


                                        Skipping class again
                                        because of anxiety
                                        I don't need more sleep.


                                                                
                                                                         It is my birthday
                                                                         I am crying in the car
                                                                         27 looks real rough.

He drawls on
Picks the same three
All male, unlike me
The girls sit in silence
Watching as he
Does the problem
And another he does the next
But never me

I sit there
raising my hand because
When I call out
it's wrong
But when they call out
it's cool

Then I'm told
To participate more
I raise my hand most of the time
I'm called on least of the time

Sexism starts young
When boys expect all the attention
and girls know they will be unheard

Ah, yeah, there it is...
It's been years; too long.
The memory has faded,
But the desire remains.

It's that feeling I've missed;
Such sweet, silent songs,
Such emotions debated,
No more clouds in my brain.

Just a painless, empty bliss.
I can smile, and fantasize,
And feel the warm sun's kiss
As I breathe and close my eyes.

Such a blanket never sewn,
Can bring me this warmth.
Confidence I've never known,
And some feeling of worth.

Finally,  I belong!
I'm here! Can you see me?
Nothing's wrong; not now,
I can just stand here, and BE.

Tonight, when they watch me,
Their eyes open in wonder,
I shall stand and deliver,
And quiver no more.

I am here.  I exist.
And I am not afraid.

they've been eating cake
take their cake away
let them eat hunger
the upper classes
crave apocalypse
and speak of revolution
as a desirable inevitability
but lay the burden
of building the guillotine
upon the poor
while denying them access
to the forest
and the wood that grows there
the mythic poor
are urged to eat the rich
the mythic rich
the rich that are richer
than the rich who dream
these dreams
if you want us
to eat the rich
invite us into the homes
of your parents
and let us sit at your
christmas dinner
and eat your food
and serve up the horror
of our presence
the good book says
charity begins at home
let us eat you

Those folks
They cry about forgotten love
As though it's a thing of yesterday
We all snicker at their naiveté
For it is known their love cares little
So cry on, little poet, cry your little heart out
But you achieve nothing

Those folks
They weep as though they're wounded
Yelling wolf about some depression
What's got you down? Some advice
Maybe stop taking yourself so seriously
Poems about how hard it is from noblemen
You've never seen the Tysa overflow

Those folks
Crying over your mother like a child
So what if she is dead?
Shouting to the rest of us like some imbecile
Crazed upon the perch of suicide
When it is just a woman who birthed you
Why, mine didn't even love me

Those folks
Singing odes to addiction
Be it hiding behind drugs or alcohol
Snubbing your face with powder
Locking yourselves in your room
Suspended bodies of privilege
Crying about hardship

Those folks
Who have never been attacked by their own mind
Assaulted by their trusted
Tricked by those they loved
Who've never seen a man take his life
Or heard someone get shot
And think they've been through it all

Those folks
Who have never heard the true songs
The real notes of reality pass them by
Hide from the world all you want
But those prophets were once right
And if you had listened you might know
But you just assumed you're as smart

You folks
With your upper-class *****
Your cliques of conceit and deceit
Those godforsaken silver windows
You've never seen it rain like it does
You've never seen the fire in the forest
So quiet down, you good-for-nothing *******.

She looks on into the clock, wondering when the bell would signal her release from boredom. She finds herself playing with the hoodie of a classmate, hoping he'd focus on her to have someone keep her mind from the mundane atmosphere of the classroom. She always loved messing with his hoodie during class because his reactions were always funny. She tosses the piece of clothing from one hand to the other when She comes to realize the patient nature of the classmate and thanks him for not leaving her in a world of loneliness and apologizes for having to put up with her.

I say good bye to you one last time
but I know it won't be the last
because I'm addicted to you
and I'll be back for more.

Please don’t view me as white
Or working class
Maybe middle class
Or straight or gay
(I happen to be straight)
Or Leaver or Remainer
Believer or Non-Believer
Aristocrat or Commoner
Patrician or Pleb
Or Anything else.

Don’t put me in a box
Or file
Or stereotype.

I’d rather be Unclassified
Or seen simply as
A Human Being.

Paul Butters

© PB 18\1\2020.