its twenty five past three and resignation is in the air
suicide stinging from our lips,tie-dye blood has yet to soak in
and waters existance is fading against my hands.
i cross the room and pick up the last drops of my dignity drying into the floor
before the rain begins.
i reach for the scissors
trying to make paper hearts bleed with my broken pen. it was never even mine, and
i cut the life from it away,just because she gave it to me.
i thread up a machine with a hangman's rope, and when i try to sew, my bobbin cracks in two -
it is an omen.
and i'm thinking that the clock is stuck, and is this some kind of purgatory?
my heart hurts, and i try to wash away a love in fabric dye,but the sink is blocked.
staring the woman in the face, i think: she could be beautiful.but I know I hate her,why do i think about her?
as begin to feel like lady macbeth - the stains on my hands won't leave me.
school bell rings & we all cut away an hour of confusion and hard work.
i reach for the door handle and look back at the destruction my boredom causes -
the whirlwind chaos that I didn't clear up,
a failure spelling "me" against the table.
outisde in the yard, i tear up my work and discard it without a second thought.it was never good enough anyway,
just as i am not good enough for that room.
and for those people
with the intricacy of material ideas falling from their mouths.i could never even seem
to spit them out.
and that's all there is to it.