Along a whisper of prairie grass,
a bellowing pitch of a merciful raptor driven to unbend the earth.
She cries and cries for the meadow song,
The split holly tree hangs itself in reservation.
12/7/10
12/2/10
The light at the end of the tunnel... is a crossroad?
I am slowly running out of gas, as usual.
My drive to write poetry has been squashed by depression and ruined dreams, tired and angry fits, selfish and selfless acts that seem to blend together to form a word:
Sacrifice.
It is almost 12PM, the day before my classes inevidably start again and I try to make myself pull together the workload I've waded into these past few weeks. Being a teacher nowadays is more of a mathmatical process than a creative art of learning. Trying to cram in standards and look professional while putting on the mask that screams: I DO CARE. A LOT.
The terrible dreams of terrible things and the angry feelings I muse over between classes and headaches make me wonder why I'm not a drunk wasting myself on cheap Budweiser or Mike's Hardcore-Drinks-For-Studs making a fool of myself, alone, and desperate for something I couldn't and cannot seem find.
The trouble is being certainly uncertain when driving down the road with a tank of gas that whispers softly how $40 isn't going to get you anywhere. But it takes some cash to be different in my '95 Wrangler.
Being different isn't so easy as cash, but being difficult... now there is something that most people find easy enough. It kind of looks like a child being told it's wrong and watching the tantrum build into a fountain of torture.
But something is missing amidst the pangs behind my eyes, between the pages of the stories that flood my head as I drive aimlessly to my destination, listening to soundtracks that promise escape isn't too far away. What am I missing... What am I missing... nothing seems to fill the void besides the sloppy pile of papers strewn about my bed like some lover had come to take me in the night in the form of some crayons, notebooks, and packets.
It's really gross.
Like a reflection of my brain, disected across my room in the form of clothes, bags, and wires I am not ready.
I am not ready at all.
Send me in... I dare you. Because right now, it wouldn't even phase me to fail and cross my name off the chalkboard to escape into the sweet bliss of namelessness and zombie brain.
Surviving being educated is an adventure in itself.
My drive to write poetry has been squashed by depression and ruined dreams, tired and angry fits, selfish and selfless acts that seem to blend together to form a word:
Sacrifice.
It is almost 12PM, the day before my classes inevidably start again and I try to make myself pull together the workload I've waded into these past few weeks. Being a teacher nowadays is more of a mathmatical process than a creative art of learning. Trying to cram in standards and look professional while putting on the mask that screams: I DO CARE. A LOT.
The terrible dreams of terrible things and the angry feelings I muse over between classes and headaches make me wonder why I'm not a drunk wasting myself on cheap Budweiser or Mike's Hardcore-Drinks-For-Studs making a fool of myself, alone, and desperate for something I couldn't and cannot seem find.
The trouble is being certainly uncertain when driving down the road with a tank of gas that whispers softly how $40 isn't going to get you anywhere. But it takes some cash to be different in my '95 Wrangler.
Being different isn't so easy as cash, but being difficult... now there is something that most people find easy enough. It kind of looks like a child being told it's wrong and watching the tantrum build into a fountain of torture.
But something is missing amidst the pangs behind my eyes, between the pages of the stories that flood my head as I drive aimlessly to my destination, listening to soundtracks that promise escape isn't too far away. What am I missing... What am I missing... nothing seems to fill the void besides the sloppy pile of papers strewn about my bed like some lover had come to take me in the night in the form of some crayons, notebooks, and packets.
It's really gross.
Like a reflection of my brain, disected across my room in the form of clothes, bags, and wires I am not ready.
I am not ready at all.
Send me in... I dare you. Because right now, it wouldn't even phase me to fail and cross my name off the chalkboard to escape into the sweet bliss of namelessness and zombie brain.
Surviving being educated is an adventure in itself.
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