Dark clouds swirl above,
My thighs ache,
My wrists tickle,
Blood runs down
My forehead, my arms, my hands.
It drips onto the paper,
Blood running like ink,
It congeals.
Forming a layer over the pure paper,
Which isn't so pure anymore,
I pick up my fountain pen
And I begin to write,
Holding it to my wrist occasionally to draw more ink.
I write and scribble and scratch,
Carving away at the work of art
That I have made,
Sculpting it like pottery,
Brushing away dust and forgotten peices.
Here stands a perfect
Peice of pottery,
Standing on its own two feet,
Destined to hold inside,
Water and
A brown envelope.
YOU ARE READING
Academic Pressures
PoetryMy voice is loud but screaming is louder. Poetry is the loudest. It gives those without power, the power to speak out in the form of artistic expression. There is always a face under the maks so lift it up. This collection of poems depicts my experi...
