Crumpled paper drips down the walls,

Shushing and suffocating over desk

The student cannot hear herself

The noise of the clock spills over the room.

The sweet tie chokes,

The folders churn, 

The floor turns to a cauldron 

The fingers yearn.

Let me write something real.

Yeats is dead and gone, who cares

Of his views on gyres and ageing.

Let me write for myself.

Let my pen dance over the page, each

Letter a turn or twist of ecstasy.

Beautiful pen. Wisp of a word, 

Let me hold you, bleeding

Into the page.

The End

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