the peeling paint is suddenly so exciting
when you have something else to do.
a million pounds of expectations rests on my head,
choking me, scaring me.
but does it really matter anymore?
petty pleas of help tend to fall on deaf ears.

Be this world, but a mad mad garden.
I am tilling, and planting with woe.
I eat occasionally, of its fruits
and when full, tenderly, I go.

Pardon-
my nature is of the child, and so
I pull this leaf, pluck these petals,
and stop to smell of the rose.

There is a chill in the air,
a cloud blocking light,
and an odor tickling thy nose.

Be it this time, or past, future
or fourth dimension; How can
I know?

There is no limit to my pondering,
no effort in this wandering,
enjoyable is the quest to know.

I let the under cooked carrot cubes play with ginger hues and pork broth in my mouth. Their dull edges slightly carved my tongue but the soup did pass like ocean waves to the seashore. It left me essentially wanting more. Down my esophagus it goes as I cramp down the vitamin C, B12(?) and a sorry excuse to a quick fix dinner. It was good all the same. It was those spring onion stems that bonded together next to the pork. Crunches of fresh grass and a morning Sun.
My laptop holds the key to what could possibly be my ticket to the bed in no where near the intention...the drive to dream. My mind is too tired to think of good planets...of worlds that are created for my craving to rest on clouds or probably fat people that can run for miles against the fit. But my head is still on the screen...Typing and wishing words were closer to my "academic thoughts".

The library is silent
Only these books can speak
But we have no time to listen
What perfect irony
To be trapped so long
Amidst these fading storytellers
And never hear them speak

2am, deadlines racing closer,
Racing the sun over the horizon
Muddled thoughts, blurry eyes
Rub them until you see straight
Until you can see the stars again
Third night this week
Panic gently, but make no sound
Reaching for the mug of bitter nectar
Panacea now, but the enemy tomorrow
Take a soothing sip, burn your tongue
Its hotter than these tears, taste nothing

One page down, four years to go
Drink your black, black coffee
Black as the night,
Black as ink flowing like blood
From one thousand pens
Flowing like dreams
From their arms
It's just another drug
Welcome back, old friend
Feel it deep in your bones
You are nothing here,
A drop of coffee on a white page
You are nothing in this library silent

Sitting in class,
Feeling as dumb as an ***.
Markers and pens all over the place,
A large empty coffee cup to keep up the pace.
Trying to remember and absorb it all,
But I forget and feel so small.

I just want to live,
To get a job I love to thrive.
To impact this world like a seismic wave,
But I'm so tired of working on this road I pave.
Giving in to skipping due to fear of failing,
Ironically forcing me to grasp the railing.

I wonder what it feels like when it comes to an end,
Will it be worth the minutes, hours, and days of stress my friend?

I am Oolitic Limestone,
Made of tons upon tons of tiny ooids.
Which in turn are made of grains of sand and once beautiful shells.
Held together by a cement of calcite.
All of myself forming from a long life of constant waves,
Rolling along a river bed, collecting as I continue rolling.
I am a sedimentary rock.
Constantly changing, constantly rolling against the warm waves.