a boy to a girl,
Texts sitting across a desk;
love, a potted plant!

On a wooden shelf textbook waits
Harboring facts, knowledge, dates
Each year summer brings needed rest
After each final, each test.

But summer is gone and school has begun
So away with freedom, the warmth of the sun
To a teenage girl, textbook goes
What horrors await? Textbook doesn't know.

Hurled in a locker, metal slams
Smothered by a shirt that says "Go Rams!"
Shoved in a backpack, do not suffocate?
Can't miss the school bus, hurry, don't be late!

Scribbled and doodled on, "It tickles!" It screams
But teenage girl doesn't realize silence is not what it seems
Spilled soda burns; acid sweet
Bubbling suffering unimaginable heat

Left on a desk, a window so close
Pages now stick, it is so gross
With its strength the textbook flies
It has just commited suicide.

You keep a clean office desk
So it's easy to shove everything off of it
To gently put your ******* it
And make her feel like she's the real reason you do buisness
Because that's how I see it.

i worry about my purpose a lot.
it's a pretentious thing to write down i know.
but if i didnt have purpose to contemplate
than all the screwdrivers downed
would be for nothing
all the evenings still in bed
would be for nothing
all of my short comings
would be for nothing.

if there's no corner piece
for me to slide into,
i might just bang my head into my desk
until i cant feel it anymore.

i hate when the light
     in my desk lamp goes out

because then
     i no longer can see

and when i cant see
     i feel as if
     the world
     forgets
     about me

each fold i forget
my troubles.
each crease satisfies
my obsessive tendencies.

every perfect creation
pushes me to make more.
they pile on my desk
and float down.

graceful little birds
hit the ground.
little sailboats sink
to the bottom of the sea.

overflowing desk
spilling into a mess.
cannot stop beautiful perfection
as my hands move beyond comprehension.

A desk. A desk behind me and to my left.
How delicate is the flower upon that desk,
Bright, filled with color, but not for long.

She has been plucked, picked.
This means she was chosen,
She is special,
But how long before she fades?
I hope she and the flower beside her
Hold on to that color,
But they’d have to be fake to do so.

A flower, two flowers, lie delicately
On an empty desk.
One is full, whose petals radiate with
A pink glow, while the other, a little more sparse.
The former has an ant crawling on it, while
The latter twinkle, delicately shivering in the
Air conditioning.

Two flowers,
Two entirely different stories,
Stuck at the same desk.

Now on days at my desk
I think of you
and your brilliant blue.

thoughts are draining
from every inch of my mind
yet I can't find the last line

I'm slaving at my desk
racking my brain for
the perfect words

my soul is ****** dry
not one single drop of
inspiration for me to try