Week of Midterm

I feels, then sees it
crawling on my arm.
Swipes it, then ends its
wandering, crawling days.
Smashed tis it,
Its yellow goo and legs
on my leafs of tree entrails;
I huffs & swipes it again.
No eulogy, no stone to honor,
Only concrete to be smashed underfoot,
Smooshed again I suppose.

So easily smashed the pest,
Back to my books,
When thoughts thinks in my brains.
So easily smashed the pest,
By tests and books.
Shivers my spine
as I mentally sees myself betweens
an index and thumb,
Feelings of weight crunches my back.

My back, my back, o’ my back!
How the weights grow heavier and heavier.
My head, my head, o’ my head!
How the aches splinter and splunter.
My insanity, my insanity, o’ my insanity!
How it slips & slips through my fingers.

Pressure crushes or makes diamonds,
Or smashes pesky bugs like me.
Piling, piling, piling,
My books becoming my bane and grave–
the key to the asylum waiting for me.
My . . .

“Stark!” shouts Friend.
“Wakes up, you’ll be late for test. . . .
Why, o’ why do I sees tears within your eyes?”

“For a bug I killed,” I replies. “And I’ll be next,
if I fails, fails, and fails again before
Friday ransoms me.”
“Then you better study, o’ Stark,” warns Friend.
“Instead of wasting time writing poesy,
of dead things withal six legs.”

I huffs. “You’re right I suppose.
Best ends this poesy now



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