Straining my brain-training
To its Red Bull-fuelled limit.
Matchsticks prop open my bleary,
teary ever-so-nearly awake eyes.
The words on the pages crawl, like slug trails
dragged onto a dancefloor by bow-legged spiders.
They mean less-than little to me.
They must mean something to someone here,
But their meaning is just a bowl full of buzzing flies,
Masquerading as my skull.
My fingers hold the pen,
It writes of its own accord,
Auto-piloted across a page that spans continents,
And my hand ran out of fuel miles ago.
Anchored to this desk and chair,
Absently pulling at my hair.
Thoughts running blindly around outside my head,
I can see their vapour trails painted blood-red.
Examining the questions that I can find no answers to,
Anywhere I look…………..in class.
© M.H.
Marc's poetry and musings 