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Untitled (Class Poem)
A man sits with letters and numbers at his feet
In deep contemplation of how to proceed.
Logic persistent, the written word escapes him.
Left with quantity and calculation.
He finds it exhausting and chooses to daydream,
Drawing funny lines in the sand - by hand.
Mouths filled with teeth and fiery intelligence
Orbit about and spout to him relevance;
But try as he may, he finds them so boring -
They continue spilling their values on to the ground.
He remembers as a child how they sounded so shrill,
Filling mind and body with their pressures and dread.
Intentions were noble, methods were flawed;
Still they cannot seem to reach him.
He'd rather craft the dirt than trade his time for theirs;
Such voices laced with fine contempt.
Admiring his work that now devours the Earth,
He doesn't see the sense in their chatter.
So they've borne another artist,
Doomed to filth and peddling scribe.
Dust beneath nails, colors in his hair;
Altering and fashioning and generating nothing.
Spawn of the moonshine, constantly tilted -
Swine of the herb vine, messy and stilted.
The making of bull shit will get you nowhere,
But maybe you're happy just being wasted.
A man sits so stoic, enjoying the air;
Indulgent in quiet, grateful for stillness.
A trifle bit hungry he reaches for something,
And finds he's yet to earn it.
He smiles, so sadly, and yet absolute,
Only to continue his scribbles.
